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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26595892">Support</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/rummy_cat/pseuds/rummy_cat'>rummy_cat</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>A Song of Ice and Fire &amp; Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aftermath of Violence, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcoholics Anonymous, Banter, Childhood Trauma, Diners, Explicit Language, F/M, Fate &amp; Destiny, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Happy Ending, Humor, Imperfect People, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Male-Female Friendship, Mild Smut, Modern Westeros, POV Sandor Clegane, Past Child Abuse, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Relapsing, Romance, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Writer Sansa</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 03:07:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Rape/Non-Con, Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>45,638</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26595892</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/rummy_cat/pseuds/rummy_cat</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In modern-day Westeros, Sandor Clegane and Sansa Stark are forced together involuntarily. They are each battling demons, but will find a kindred spirit in each other.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sandor Clegane &amp; Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>132</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Living Problem</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This started with me wanting to write a modern SanSan in which Sandor and Sansa don't meet until AFTER Sansa has gone through the traumas she went through in ASOIAF after going to KL. I tried to imagine how Sandor would be attracted to her if she wasn't a perfect little bird the first time he laid eyes on her, and how Sansa would react to Sandor's scars and grumpiness if she had a thicker skin, herself. </p><p>Note: There is plenty of fluff, fun, joking, and getting-to-know-one-another. But this is dark at times, so please heed the tags. Keep in mind the non-con and abuse all happened in the past for our characters.</p><p>Three main characters are Sandor, Sansa, and Ray (Elder Brother). All other character tags are minor, or mentions of the past. All Sandor POV.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>This is such bullshit.</em>
</p><p>Not groaning or snorting every time one of the whinging bastards shared his or her sob story was proving to be one of the hardest things Sandor had ever done. They called this a support group, but all Sandor had seen in his three meetings thus far was a sickening amount of self-pity. What was worse, every time one of these fuckers shared their “story” all the others donned exaggerated looks of sympathy, as if they gave a single shit about other people’s problems.</p><p>Perhaps some people got some benefit out of this type of exchange, but not Sandor. For one thing, he didn’t have a <em>drinking</em> problem. He had a <em>living</em> problem. Alcohol wasn’t his problem; it was his solution. Drinking soothed his rage (most of the time) and quieted the inner voices that nagged at him incessantly when he was sober.</p><p>He looked around the room. Most of these people were here voluntarily, he gathered. He was here because it was court ordered.</p><p>There was some chick who had been cheated on by her boyfriend of two years. <em>Boo fucking hoo.</em> Another who lost her father when she was in college – but as far as Sandor was concerned, she was lucky to have a loving father to begin with. Not like the piece of shit that raised him…</p><p>There was a guy who had been in the military – clearly had PTSD and was self-medicating. He was one of the more bearable people; Sandor could actually respect and to an extent empathize with him.</p><p>Sandor could barely remember the others’ stories. They blurred together into a lump of divorce, lost loved ones, lay-offs, and other specific incidents that prompted the person to seek out alcohol as a coping mechanism, or relapse into the habit.</p><p>
  <em>Gods, “coping mechanism” – I’m even using their cliché terminology.</em>
</p><p>Sandor shifted in his seat, inadvertently catching the eyes of the man who moderated these sessions. His name was Ray. He appeared to be in his sixties, looked like the type who’d had a rough life – like an aged rock star, only Ray didn’t seem to be holding desperately onto some long-gone youth.</p><p>“Thank you, Jane,” Ray said warmly to the girl who’d been through a bad break-up and fallen off the wagon. <em>Gods, wouldn’t it be nice for that to be my worst problem….</em></p><p>Ray cleared his throat, “Sandor, would you like to share anything today?”</p><p>“No,” Sandor answered honestly. He didn’t even want to be here.</p><p>“You haven’t shared anything with the group since your first day.”</p><p>Sandor looked at the faces around him – at least those brave enough to meet his eyes, “Nothing’s changed since then. Nothing more to tell,” he crossed his arms.</p><p>Ray looked disappointed but didn’t press – that wasn’t his style, “Okay, Sandor. Maybe next time.”</p><p>
  <em>Yeah, sure.</em>
</p><p>After the meeting Sandor lit up a cigarette and began walking the ten blocks back to his apartment. He tried to think about what he could share at the next meeting. It wasn’t enough just to attend – Ray made that clear after his second meeting. He wouldn’t sign off on Sandor’s attendance record if he never opened up, and Sandor needed his sign-off to avoid going to jail for 90 days on an assault charge.</p><p>Sandor began mulling over the various aspects of his life, considering which would be the least unpleasant to share with a bunch of strangers. He started at the beginning…</p><p>
  <em>My abusive, alcoholic father and my piece of shit brother? Maybe.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>What my brother did to me when I was seven years old? No.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>My teenage years – various violent and nonviolent crimes? Maybe.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>My work as the Lannister’s muscle? As Joffrey Baratheon’s bodyguard, and all the despicable things that cunt made me do or witness? Hell no. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>How I can’t even look in the mirror without wanting to punch something? No.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>How I’ve never had a normal relationship with a woman? Hell no.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>How there is only one person in the entire world I’d dare to call a friend? No.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>How I want to die every time a pretty girl looks at my scars? Hell no.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>How the only reason I’m still alive is because I’m too fucking craven to kill myself, because some small part of me believes in the concept of heaven and hell, and I know which one I’d go to? No.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Alright, shitty childhood and reckless teenage years it is... But no details.</em>
</p><p>Of course, Sandor should have known better than to expect anything to ever go as planned…</p><p>----------------------------------------</p><p>The desire to keep his head down and face hidden by the curtain of his shoulder-length hair became irresistible whenever Sandor was in the presence of a pretty girl. Today was supposed to be the day he would talk, share some of his past, so that Ray would sign off on Sandor’s required ten sessions of the alcoholics’ support group. It was Sandor’s fourth meeting, and he’d barely spoken in the prior three. If he spoke a bit today, and maybe at two more sessions, he thought Ray would take mercy on him.</p><p>But how the hell was he supposed to talk today when it would mean drawing the attention of everyone in the group, including this new girl with hair the color of molten copper, and eyes the color of the sky? Sandor took in her appearance without actually looking toward her. She was the last to enter and seemed to be trying to make herself invisible. She wore a plain gray, oversized hoodie – probably belonged to her boyfriend – a pair of black leggings and black sneakers. Her hair was pulled into a low ponytail and she appeared to be wearing no makeup.</p><p>Sandor stared down at his lap and didn’t lift his eyes even as Ray commenced the meeting, “I see we have a new face. Welcome, I’m Ray… you’ll meet everyone else as we go around. Would you like to start by introducing yourself?”</p><p>“I’m Sansa.”</p><p>“Hi Sansa,” Ray said in that soothing voice he had, “Why are you here with us today?”</p><p>“Because the judge ordered it.”</p><p>Sandor snorted, and immediately regretted it as everyone turned toward him. He kept his head down.</p><p>Ray continued, “Why did the judge order it?”</p><p>“Because it was my first offense.” The girl’s tone was calm, though Sandor could detect her impatience.</p><p>“Would you care to share with the group the nature of that offense?”</p><p>The girl exhaled loudly, “Got snagged at a DUI checkpoint.”</p><p>Sandor laughed inwardly. Girl probably had been out drinking with some friends on a Friday night and just had shit luck. She couldn’t possibly have a drinking problem. Was too fucking pretty.</p><p>“Do you often drive while intoxicated?”</p><p>The girl exhaled even more loudly, “Look, Ray, I’m sure this will sound like an excuse, but I shouldn’t be here. I’ve never been in jail, never had so much as a speeding ticket. I don’t have a drinking problem – no offense to any who do. I think your time is probably better spent on those that <em>want</em> to be here and that need your help.”</p><p>“Ah, I see. So it was a misunderstanding?” Ray said casually.</p><p>Sandor could tell the girl nodded vigorously, “Ex<em>ac</em>tly.”</p><p>“So you don’t drink?”</p><p>“Of course I drink, how else would I get a DUI?”</p><p>“Silly me, of course. How often do you drink, then?”</p><p>The girl shifted in her chair, “I don’t see how that’s relevant.”</p><p>“What do you mean?” Ray asked. Sandor sniggered again on the inside. Ray sure was good at sounding so innocent while tricking people into opening up.</p><p>The girl huffed, “I mean that a drinking problem isn’t defined by how often you drink, it’s what you do when you drink; how you act.”</p><p>“Ah, I see. Then you should have no problem telling us how often you drink.”</p><p>Sandor could practically hear her eyes rolling, “I thought this was a support group, not an interrogation.”</p><p>Ray was not the least bit insulted or intimidated, “Indeed it is a support group. But we can’t support each other unless we know what the others are dealing with.”</p><p>“That’s fine, because as I said, I don’t need support… I’m fine. I have a job, I have an apartment, a car, I have money in a savings account. Alright? I don’t have a drinking problem.”</p><p>Ray rubbed his chin before addressing the group, “Who here has a job?” All but two of the ten other members raised their hands, including Sandor. “Who here has a home?” All but one raised their hands. “Who here has a bit of money stashed away?” All but four raised their hands.</p><p>Ray nodded, “And who here has a drinking problem?” Everyone but Sandor and the girl raised their hands.</p><p>
  <em>Uh oh.</em>
</p><p>Ray turned to him, eyebrows raised, “Sandor. Perhaps you and Sansa should form your own support group for people who have been wrongly condemned!” A few of the others dared to chuckle. Sandor ignored it.</p><p>Ray looked to be considering something, “Alright. Everyone is at a different stage in their journey. We all respect that…” Sandor could see many of the other heads nodding in agreement, “How about each of you answer one question of mine, honestly, and you won’t have to speak for the rest of today’s meeting? Deal?”</p><p>They both nodded.</p><p>“Right, Sansa… how often do you drink?”</p><p>Now the girl’s head was lowered, “Every day.”</p><p>“Okay. Sandor, how old were you the first time you got plastered?”</p><p>Sandor growled out his response, “Eleven.”</p><p>“Okay. Thank you both.”</p><p>Ray continued with the others. Sandor tuned most of it out as always and made a bee line for the door once the meeting was over. He paused outside the church where the meetings were held just long enough to retrieve a cigarette from his pocket and light it. It was just enough time for the new girl – Sansa – to exit the building and walk past him, hood pulled up over her hair. Sandor began walking home only to realize that for ten blocks their routes were identical. For ten blocks he walked behind her, catching occasional whiffs of her laundry detergent and the menthol cigarette she lit up a block away from the church. If she knew he was behind her she gave no indication. When he entered his building, he noted that she made a right onto the cross street. He wondered how far she lived from his building. Couldn’t be too far, or else she’d likely have taken a cab or bus home from the meeting. An unexpected image of he and the girl sharing a cab on a rainy day entered his mind, but he shook it away.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thought I should make a note - most of what I know about AA or similar programs is what I've seen on TV. While I could do more research and probably make the support group scenes more genuine, that isn't the focus for me. Their alcohol abuse was the catalyst that brought them together, but it will largely be a backdrop of the story until a later chapter. </p><p>Just wanted to say this in case someone who's been to AA/equivalent is pulling out their hair like "that is NOT how it works!"</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. I drink at home by myself</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Everyone shares some of their past.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>For fuck’s sake. These cunts patting each other on the back for the smallest fucking achievements, it’s fucking ridiculous. </em>
</p><p>One of the men was bragging about how this was his 180<sup>th</sup> day sober. Apparently, that was a big deal as everyone clapped for him and the two people sitting closest literally patted him on the back in congratulations. Sandor dared to look at the girl – Sansa – who sat directly across from him and had to stifle a laugh as he saw her roll her eyes. If she was a guy, he might want to grab a beer with her and gripe about how pointless the whole ‘support group’ experience was. <em>After</em> his probation was over, of course.</p><p>
  <em>Fuck, I shouldn’t have thought about that. Now I want a fucking beer.</em>
</p><p>He had almost two months to go before he’d be done pissing in a cup, and he planned to celebrate it by enjoying a pint or two, or three… or perhaps some Jameson on the rocks. Or a nice bottle of Cabernet… it really didn’t matter. As long as it wasn’t some overly sweet, fruity concoction he’d drink it.</p><p>
  <em>Fuck, now I really need a drink…</em>
</p><p>That familiar urge came back to him and he started tapping his left foot. He looked to the wall clock. There were 34 minutes left in this damned meeting, and Sandor desperately needed a smoke. He’d have a smoke, then he’d go to the boxing club and hit the speed bag, maybe find someone to spar with. Then a half hour on the treadmill would do fine. <em>No, an hour… need to be exhausted when I get home tonight, so I don’t give into this temptation. Maybe I’ll watch a movie. Or porn… yeah, I’ll watch some porn and jerk off. Hot redheads. Fuck, where the fuck did that come from?</em></p><p>“Have somewhere to be, Sandor?” Ray asked.</p><p>“Hmm?” he grunted in response.</p><p>“You look restless, you’re looking at the clock. Are we keeping you from something?”</p><p>
  <em>Yeah, from a beer, a cigarette, and a quick tug.</em>
</p><p>“No, just… I dunno, work stuff,” he lied. His job was an outlet, not a cause for stress.</p><p>“You’re a mechanic, right?”</p><p>
  <em>Fuck, now I need to make up something stressful about being a fucking motorcycle mechanic.</em>
</p><p>“Yeah, custom bikes.”</p><p>“Wow, impressive. You could have your own TV show.”</p><p>Sandor snorted, “Don’t have a face for television.”</p><p>Ray smiled. A couple of the guys chuckled, most of the others averted their eyes.</p><p>“So what’s stressing you out?”</p><p>
  <em>Fuck… make something up…</em>
</p><p>“It’s not a big deal, just a client who’s a bit of a cunt, doesn’t know what he wants but knows what he <em>doesn’t </em>want.”</p><p>“Hah! Sounds like the way he feels about his bike is the way most of us feel about life.”</p><p>Sandor shrugged.</p><p>“So is that what you’ve always done?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>Ray was waiting for more. Sandor sighed, “Used to do private security.”</p><p>“Well, you’ve got the face for that!” Ray joked.</p><p>Sandor let out a friendly snort himself. Few people were brave enough to joke about his appearance – at least to his face. Sandor was a six-foot-seven-inch wall of muscle which added to an overall frightening appearance. Dark hair, dark eyes, a nose that had been broken three times, and – last but not least – burn scars that covered half his face and extended down his neck.</p><p>When his eyes left Ray they landed on Sansa’s face, and Sandor startled to see she was staring at him with narrowed eyes. She was inspecting him, looking neither fearful nor disgusted. Sandor immediately looked down to his lap. Ray seemed to notice the brief exchange for he turned to Sansa, “Sansa, I don’t believe you’ve spoken about your job. Is it stressful?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Do you mind sharing what you do?”</p><p>“I’m a writer.”</p><p>“Ah! Anything we’d have read?”</p><p>“Yes, but I can’t say what. I’m a ghost writer.”</p><p>“Wow… interesting. Most people who are creative types want to take credit for their work. Is it hard to see someone else take the credit?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>
  <em>Gods, she says even less than I do.</em>
</p><p>“What about you, Sandor? Do you feel some pride of ownership, so to speak, after you’ve built a motorcycle?”</p><p>“No, just enjoy building them. Don’t need credit.”</p><p>“Did you always enjoy building things?”</p><p>Sandor shrugged, “Not really. I mean, maybe. More than other things I guess.”</p><p>“What about you Sansa – did you always enjoy writing?”</p><p>She nodded her head but seemed to be uninterested in continuing the discussion. Ray was persistent, “What genre do you write?”</p><p>The exasperation in her tone was plain, “Mystery… what does this have to do with anything?”</p><p>Ray shrugged, “Just like to know about people. Their likes, dislikes, what makes them tick… does it bother you to talk about yourself?”</p><p>The girl eyed him suspiciously, “Yes.”</p><p>Ray offered her a small smile, “Okay.”</p><p>The rest of the meeting was, as usual, a blur of nondescript whinging. When it was over, Sandor jumped to his feet as always, but Ray called to him and Sansa to stay behind.</p><p>
  <em>What the fuck now?</em>
</p><p>Sansa and Sandor stood several feet apart, each facing Ray. He bid them to sit before addressing the reason for keeping them late, “I can’t help but notice neither of you is comfortable talking in front of a group…”</p><p>
  <em>Wow, how could you tell?</em>
</p><p>Ray looked at them each expectantly but neither spoke, “Or is it talking at all that you’re not comfortable with?”</p><p>When both remained silent Ray sighed, “Look, I get that this <em>format</em> isn’t for everybody. There’s no point in coming here if you’re not going to get any value from it…”</p><p>Sansa lifted her eyes, no doubt expecting Ray to say neither was required to come back, but he burst her bubble, “But I have a job to do, and I can’t in good conscience sign off on your required attendance if neither of you is willing to share anything, or at least be open to letting this process help you…”</p><p>Sandor didn’t like where this was going, “Look, Ray, if it eases your conscience, I’m not lying when I say I don’t need this. I don’t <em>have</em> a drinking problem. I haven’t drunk for over a month and I’m fine!”</p><p>Sansa nodded passionately, “And I haven’t had a drop since my court date two weeks ago, and I’m fine!”</p><p>“I don’t doubt either of you, but I’m going to guess you’ve also both been laying low since your respective court dates. Avoiding bars and clubs, not hanging out with your old drinking buddies.”</p><p>Sansa shook her head, “I usually didn’t drink in clubs or with buddies – I drink at home by myself!” as soon as the words came out the girl blushed crimson realizing their implication.</p><p>Ray stared at her, not letting her off the hook. She ignored his glare, staring instead at the stained-glass windows.</p><p>Sandor shifted, “Ray, what exactly are you asking of us? What do we need to do to get you to sign off?”</p><p>“Easy. You don’t want to talk in front of a group, fine, I get it. You agree to come here for five more sessions – just the three of us. No silent sulking; you will both talk, you will both own your shit, and you will admit that it wasn’t just bad luck that brought you each here.”</p><p>Sandor considered the man’s proposal. On the one hand, he’d certainly rather talk to two people than eleven. On the other hand, one of the people was a beautiful girl that had been making an appearance in his fantasies the past few nights, and he’d be expected to do <em>a lot</em> of talking.</p><p>“Fine,” Sansa answered first, “If you’re willing to do that Ray, and if Sandor is willing to do it… then fine.”</p><p>“Sandor?” Ray asked hopefully.</p><p>“Whatever, just want to get this shit over with.”</p><p>“Great,” Ray slapped his own knees, “shall we say Wednesdays at 7:30? Does that work for you both?”</p><p>They both nodded, but only Sansa remembered her manners, “Thanks Ray, I guess it’s more work for you.”</p><p>“It’s my job!” Ray said cheerfully.</p><p>Now that they were the only two departing it was impossible to not walk out together. Once down the stairs she lit a cigarette as he did the same. “Well, see you next week,” she said a bit awkwardly. He nodded his response and began walking home. When she realized they were walking the same direction she cast him a glance, then put up her hood.</p><p>It hadn’t occurred to him during the last meeting, but Sandor couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew the girl from somewhere. He told himself he’d probably seen her around the city; if they both lived in the same neighborhood, they’d undoubtedly run into each other at some point in time – <em>probably at a liquor store</em>, he mused.</p><p>He slowed his pace so he wouldn’t be walking next to her as she seemed to quicken hers for the same reason. Suddenly, agreeing to Ray’s suggestion seemed like a mistake.</p><p>-------------------------------------------------</p><p>Ray was more subdued in their smaller group, or perhaps he was only mirroring the tone of his two companions. Seeing neither of them would start the conversation, he did, “So, Sandor, you told us you started drinking when you were eleven. In my experience, kids don’t drink at that age unless they’ve had a… <em>difficult</em> childhood.”</p><p>“Aye, you could say that.”</p><p>“Care to elaborate?”</p><p>He rolled his eyes, “Suppose I don’t have a choice, do I?”</p><p>Ray smiled warmly, “Afraid not.”</p><p>Sandor nodded, “Right. Yeah, it was difficult. Dad was a drunk, and a violent one at that. Probably not the worst father in the world, but pretty damned close.”</p><p>“And your mother?”</p><p>“Gone,” Sandor refused to add more on that topic, and Ray could tell it was a sensitive subject.</p><p>“You strike me as an only child.”</p><p>“I wish,” Sandor snorted, “My older brother was… well, I suppose if you imagine all the worst traits a human being can possibly possess, he had all of them.”</p><p>“Mmm… a temper?”</p><p>“That’s an understatement.”</p><p>“And he directed his temper at you?”</p><p>Sandor shifted, “Aye.”</p><p>Ray nodded, “How about you Sansa – you have a family, siblings?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>Ray looked surprised, “Never, or…”</p><p>She stared at the stained-glass windows again, “Not never.”</p><p>“So, they’re…”</p><p>“Dead,” she spit the word out like it wasn’t worthy of being on her tongue.</p><p>Ray frowned, “I see. I’m sorry to hear that. May I ask how long it’s been?”</p><p>“Ten years,” she answered emotionlessly.</p><p>“Mmm… if I’m gauging your age correctly, you would have been a teenager.”</p><p>She nodded.</p><p>“That’s a tough age to lose loved ones. Were you close to your family?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>Ray cleared his throat, “Sansa, it helps if I get more than one-word answers. I don’t need every detail, but perhaps you could give us an idea of… some of what you’ve gone through.”</p><p>She stared daggers at the man, the most real emotion Sandor had seen from her so far. At least a minute passed before she spoke, “When I was fifteen, my parents and two of my brothers were killed on the way home from a football game. A trucker fell asleep at the wheel, hit their minivan head-on. One of my brothers survived, was in a coma for… well he was in a coma for a while then he died.”</p><p>Ray shifted in his seat looking uncomfortable. No doubt he wasn’t suspecting that story to come out of her. Truthfully, Sandor felt just as surprised, but he could school his features better than Ray.</p><p>When he chanced a glance up, he saw the vacant look was back in her eyes. Sandor couldn’t help but feel bad for her. He couldn’t relate to having a close, loving family, but he could only imagine losing them all in one fell swoop would be very traumatic.</p><p>“Thank you for sharing that Sansa. Did you have any other family?”</p><p>She huffed, “A thirteen-year-old sister who ran away and never came back. I went to live with my aunt – my mom’s sister – and her... husband.”</p><p>“Well, that is rough, indeed. At least you had <em>some</em> support system, right?”</p><p>She snorted, “My aunt wasn’t what you’d call a functioning adult.”</p><p>“And your uncle?”</p><p>“He <em>wasn’t</em> my uncle,” the girl’s composure broke momentarily, until she turned her gaze back to the windows.</p><p>Ray turned back to Sandor, “How about you, Sandor… did you have any other family or friends that could be part of your support system?”</p><p>For a change Sandor was relieved the attention was back on him. The girl looked like she couldn’t handle any more talking. He shook his head, “No… I didn’t have any other family.”</p><p>“How old were you when you left home?”</p><p>“Twelve, almost thirteen.”</p><p>“Wow… that’s quite young. Where did you go?”</p><p>“I worked odd jobs, lived on the streets, crashed with people.” <em>Stole, so I had money for motels.</em></p><p>“Well, I dare say the fact that today you are not dead or in jail says a lot about you. You have a home, a job… sounds like you’ve done alright for yourself and didn’t have much help. That’s something to be proud of.”</p><p>Sandor snorted, “Nothing to be proud of, trust me.”</p><p>“Why not?”</p><p>Sandor stretched his long legs out in front of him, “Came pretty close to being dead on more than one occasion. And I’m not in jail, but I’ve done plenty of things that could’ve put me there…”</p><p>“But you speak in the past tense, so I assume you have changed your ways?”</p><p>Sandor nodded, “Past five or six years I’ve been staying out of trouble, yeah. This guy I knew owned a motorcycle shop, hired me, trained me, now I more or less run it for him. He’ll retire soon and I’ll hopefully buy it from him.”</p><p>Ray’s eyes brightened, “That’s great. How about you Sansa? How did you get into writing? I must admit you’re rather young to be an accomplished author.”</p><p>She shrugged, “Submitted a short story to an open contest, won second place. Someone that worked for a publisher contacted me and asked me to send in samples of my work, so I did. They bought a couple for a collection they were publishing.”</p><p>“Impressive! So you only write short stories?”</p><p>“No, I’ve written two novels, both as a ghost writer, on contract for that same publisher.”</p><p>“Wow, you must put all your time and energy into writing. Would you say it’s been an outlet for you?”</p><p>“I guess.”</p><p>“How about you, Sandor – do you feel like working on bikes helped you find some peace?”</p><p>
  <em>“Peace?”</em>
</p><p>“Well, then what do you get out of it, other than a source of income?”</p><p>“I don’t know… I guess it keeps me busy, gives me something to focus on instead of…”</p><p>“Instead of thinking about the past?”</p><p>Sandor eyed him, “I thought this was an alcoholics’ support group, not a fucking therapy session.”</p><p>Ray shrugged, “Fine, then let’s talk about your drinking. You’re here instead of doing time for an assault charge. An assault that took place while you were drunk.”</p><p>“The other guys were drunk, too. Not my fault they couldn’t hold their own. Did they get arrested for being drunk? Or for starting shit with me? No. I got arrested because<em> I</em> won, and <em>they</em> lost… that simple.”</p><p>“They didn’t just lose a fight, they ended up in the ER.”</p><p>Sandor felt his cheeks heat; he didn’t want Sansa to think he was a violent person… <em>anymore…</em></p><p>“How did the fight start?”</p><p>“I didn’t start it,” Sandor gritted.</p><p>“That’s not what I asked.”</p><p>Sandor let his head fall back, “I was outside a bar having a smoke, this pair of cunts was hassling a couple girls who clearly weren’t interested. I told the guys to take a hint and move on.”</p><p>“And they hit you for that?”</p><p>“No, they <em>tried</em> to hit me for that.”</p><p>“And instead of using just enough force to scare them off, you didn’t let up – that about right?”</p><p>“Yup,” Sandor said, knowing the lecture was coming.</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>Sandor looked at Ray. Few people ever asked him <em>why</em>…</p><p>“I guess it set me off, seeing the way they were toward the girls.”</p><p>“Violence against women upsets you?”</p><p>“Aye, isn’t it supposed to?”</p><p>“Yes, though not everyone would react as… <em>strongly</em> as you did.”</p><p>“Well, they’re a bunch of pussies then.”</p><p>“So them saying some disrespectful words to a pair of girls upset you enough to put them both in the hospital?”</p><p>Sandor shrugged, “Aye, and…”</p><p>“And what?”</p><p>“Nothing.”</p><p>Ray stared at him.</p><p>Sandor exhaled loudly, “And the girls, the way they… looked at me. When I tried to defend them, before any fists flew, they looked at me like <em>I </em>was the one they should be afraid of. I asked if they were alright and they nearly pissed themselves.”</p><p>“Because of your scars?” Ray asked innocently.</p><p>“What the fuck do you think?”</p><p>Ray nodded, “I imagine that’s been a constant source of… <em>frustration</em> for you. People judging you by your looks, assuming you’re tough, or mean.”</p><p>“I am tough, and I am mean.”</p><p>Ray laughed, “I believe you, but what else?”</p><p>“What else what?”</p><p>“What else are you?”</p><p>Sandor shrugged, “Angry.”</p><p>Ray smiled weakly, “I meant <em>good</em> things.”</p><p>Sandor averted his eyes. He wasn’t comfortable with praise, and certainly not self-praise.</p><p>Ray sighed at his silence, “I’d say you’re funny – even if a bit self-deprecating – you seem to have a head on your shoulders. You’re good with your hands, have good mechanical aptitude. And I can tell you have a good heart.”</p><p>Sandor felt the familiar swell of anger rising in him. He curled his hands into fists but tried not to explode, “So?”</p><p>“So it’s okay to remind ourselves of our good qualities once in a while, rather than only focusing on the bad.”</p><p>“Aye, <em>is</em> it?” the anger was building into a thundercloud.</p><p>“Of course! No one’s perfect, but I like to think there is good to be found in almost everyone.”</p><p>Sandor snorted, “Why the fuck would I want to think well of myself? The world will always see me as a fucking monster, or a criminal… Why should I get my hopes up that there is someone out there who’ll look past all this?” Sandor circled his face with his index finger. “Tell you what, try walking around looking like this for a day, <em>one day</em> – I bet you’ll lose your faith in humanity.”</p><p>Ray narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth to speak but Sansa beat him to it, “You think that’s the worst thing? To be feared?” She snorted, “Better to have people think you’re a wolf than a sheep.”</p><p>“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”</p><p>“Exactly what I said. I wish people saw in me what they see in you.”</p><p>Sandor waved a hand at her, “Aye, must be really tough being a pretty white girl. What’s the matter, does it get tiresome having doors opened for you? Or not having to pay for drinks at a bar?”</p><p>“You mean having men hold the door open for me only to leer at my ass after I walk past? Or not being able to put my drink down at a bar for fear it will get spiked?”</p><p>“I’ll admit men are pigs, but trust me, girl, you’ve got it easy all-in-all.”</p><p>She crossed her arms, “Well <em>boy</em>, what’s so easy about it? What’s so easy about my life?”</p><p>Sandor rolled his eyes.</p><p>“No, I mean it – you think it’s easy never being able to trust anyone? I’m twenty-six and I’ve yet to have a single healthy relationship. Every guy I meet just wants to… to use me… or take advantage of me. They act sweet, they act like they care, and then they show their true colors. Something about me apparently screams ‘easy target’ – I’m some wounded animal and they’re a fucking hunter.”</p><p>“Ever occur to you you’re picking wrong? Let me guess, you go for the rich, pretty ones…”</p><p>“Picking? <em>Picking?” </em>she snorted scathingly, and for a moment Sandor thought she was going to stand up and cross the space between them. She wasn’t intimidated by him, and it was equal parts unnerving and refreshing.</p><p>Sandor was about to continue his argument but something in the girl’s eyes told him to keep his mouth shut. He wasn’t good with people, but he was good at <em>reading</em> people. The girl had hurt and anger in her eyes. He knew them well because he found them in his own eyes, any time he dared a look in a mirror.</p><p>Ray let them sit in silence for a couple minutes and the girl seemed happy to do so. Eventually he steepled his fingers and seemed to choose his words carefully, “Clearly you both have been hurt deeply and often in your young lives. I suspect we’ve only scratched the surface of what you’ve each gone through, and that’s enough for now. What I can say is that emotional trauma untreated is as dangerous as a wound untreated – it will fester; it will affect every aspect of one’s life. It will drive a person to things that are not healthy. For some of us it’s violence, for others it’s drug abuse, alcohol abuse, self-harm, any number of things. Make no mistake, it’ll kill you the same as an infected wound, just not as quickly…”</p><p>Ray sighed, again seeming to carefully weight his next words, “I’m much older than you two; when I came back from the war, no one used words like <em>PTSD</em>. We were soldiers, <em>killers</em>… we were expected to be tough. We weren’t supposed to bring home whatever we’d gone through. We were supposed to return to our families, get jobs, and become civilians again, just like that,” Ray snapped his fingers.</p><p>Sandor and Sansa were both looking at him, rapt, though Ray only stared at some distant spot on the wall. Sandor wondered if he was reliving something he’d seen or done during the war.  </p><p>“My wife tried to talk to me about it, and Gods,” Ray looked up to the ceiling as he shook his head, “how I wish I’d done that. But how do you tell a kind-hearted woman that she’s married to a monster? She was young, working, raising our little boy… I didn’t want to burden her with the weight of what I’d experienced. So I swallowed it. I pretended all the shit I’d seen was just a bad dream. I went through life like a zombie, not enjoying anything. I didn’t enjoy food, I didn’t enjoy playing with my son, I didn’t enjoy making love to my wife. But I quickly found something I <em>did </em>enjoy – <em>whiskey</em>... It dulled the memories and it loosened me up. When I was drunk, I could pretend to be someone else, someone who didn’t care about the war. I could enjoy things again, I could enjoy eating a burger at a bar, I could enjoy watching a game with a buddy, I could enjoy women – just not my wife, because she knew it wasn’t the real me. When I came home drunk, I was a stranger to her. When I was sober, I was just an empty shell.”</p><p>He was quiet now, as if finished talking. Sansa was literally on the edge of her seat; no doubt the writer in her couldn’t stand not hearing the conclusion of a story, “What happened? When did you change?”</p><p>Ray smiled at her, but there was no happiness behind it. He crossed his arms and let a minute pass before concluding his story, “I got my honorable discharge when I was twenty-five. My wife left me when I was twenty-eight. I’m now sixty-six. Ten years ago, an old drinking buddy of mine did something really bad, something that ruined his life, and other lives. I guess you could say that seeing the damage he’d caused was a bit of a wakeup call. I spent weeks walking around thinking, <em>that could have been me.</em> And it could have been – so easily…”</p><p>“…On one such aimless walk I found myself in front of a church. I wandered in, went into the confessional booth, and told the priest every horrible thing I’d ever done. Every sin, every regret… all the emotions I never gave voice to. I was in there for hours. And when I was done, he didn’t tell me to do some penance; he didn’t tell me my sins were absolved. He said, <em>“Come back next Tuesday.” </em>Then he walked out. Then I walked out. But I went there the next Tuesday, and the one after that, and the one after that.”</p><p>Sansa wanted more, “What did he tell you? How did he finally help you get straight after all those years?”</p><p>Ray’s smile was a bit warmer now, and though obviously Ray’s words were meant for both Sandor and Sansa to hear, Sandor couldn’t help but feel like he was witnessing a private conversation between the two. He dared not ask any questions or interrupt. Ray continued, “He was only the guide, I helped <em>myself</em> get straight. He made me go back to the beginning, to the war – he made me talk through all of it. It was suddenly clear as day that I had never forgiven myself for the things I’d done over there. I never forgave my government for sending me there in the first place. I was holding grudges for decades… even some things from before the war; things unresolved from my childhood that probably led me to enlist in the first place…”</p><p>“What about your wife, er, ex-wife… and son – did you make amends?” Sansa put a hand on Ray’s forearm as she asked, though Sandor suspected she wasn’t aware of her own gesture until Ray put his own leathered hand over hers in response. It only proved to make Sandor feel even more like an outsider, yet he felt equally invested in hearing Ray’s answer.</p><p>“I’m afraid it was too late for that. My wife and boy became another thing I needed to forgive myself for. Probably the hardest for me. Failing her, rejecting her offer of help, not being there for my boy…”</p><p>Sansa nodded, tears making her eyes glisten in a way that was both solemn and beautiful, “I think our regrets around family are the hardest to overcome. I’ve done many things I regret, but the thing that keeps me up at night is the decision to not go with my family to the football game. Clearly, I couldn’t have stopped a truck, but how would my presence have altered the trajectory of events? Would we have left the stadium a few seconds earlier, or a few seconds later? I might have had to go to the bathroom after the game. Maybe I’d have walked more slowly to the car, or stopped to buy a t-shirt, or bumped into a friend and stopped to chat. Maybe I’d have insisted we stop somewhere for ice cream... Gods,” she threw her head back, “I’ve even wondered if having an extra hundred pounds of weight in the minivan would have slowed the acceleration just enough to put us in a different place when that trucker crossed the line...”</p><p>“…But the worst is the regret that, even if I couldn’t or wouldn’t have changed anything, that I wasn’t in the car with them.” Her eyes were glass as she spoke those last words. It was clear she wasn’t looking for pity. She was just being honest, and if Sandor were honest, he’d say he thought about ending his life more times than he could count. In fact, he felt rather craven at times for not being able to do it. Because what did he really have to live for? A job he liked, sure. But beyond that he had no family, no friends, no hobbies. He stayed in his lonely apartment drinking, watching TV, and lifting weights. He’d fall asleep drunk most nights, start the next day with a scalding hot shower, and make his way to work, only feeling better after two cups of coffee and four cigarettes. The highlight of his pathetic life was the nights he could summon the energy to jerk off. It wasn’t so easy to fantasize when your self-hatred ran so deep that even the girls in your fantasies couldn’t look at your face. Even porn was only a reminder of how ugly he was compared to other men – other men had whole faces; no matter their other physical imperfections, that was all he saw: whole faces.</p><p>“Sandor?”</p><p>He looked up to see both Ray and Sansa looking at him. Ray had asked a question.</p><p>“Sorry?”</p><p>“I asked if you can sympathize with Sansa and I … our feelings of guilt leading us to drink to try to dull the pain. Have you had something similar in your life?”</p><p>
  <em>Like never standing up to my brother?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Like working for Joffrey Baratheon all those years – cleaning up his messes, especially with… girls…</em>
</p><p>“Yes,” was all Sandor would say.</p><p>Ray nodded after a few drawn-out seconds, “Right. Well I think we’ve all shared a lot. Next week we’ll work on some coping tactics we can employ. Until then, I’d encourage both of you to make some notes. What sets you off? What makes you want to drink? What draws out the darkness?”</p><p>Sansa and Sandor nodded obediently, though there was no way in hell he’d write down all the things that angered him in a regular week.</p><p>This night as they walked in the same direction toward their respective homes, Sandor overhead Sansa return a call she’d seemingly missed during the meeting.</p><p>“Hey, Roose, sorry I missed you.”</p><p>Of course, Sandor couldn’t hear the person on the other end, but he felt an odd swell of jealousy at the idea of her speaking to another man. During the meetings he got the impression she was unattached.</p><p>After pausing to listen to <em>Roose</em> Sansa continued, “I know it’s in two weeks. It’s under control, I’ve just been—”</p><p>“Yes, you’ll get it by then. I—”</p><p>She sighed at whatever the man was saying, “I understand that, but—”</p><p>“Look I’ve just been going through something, worst case I’ll need an extra six weeks. I’ve never missed a deadline and I—”</p><p>The girl stopped walking now, and Sandor was so engrossed in her conversation he almost did the same. She leaned against a building and seemed to be getting an earful from this <em>Roose</em> fellow, who Sandor gathered she worked for. Sandor wanted to reach through the phone and smack the guy around a bit. After several paces he was out of earshot, but her words continued echoing in his mind.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Dirty old egg-sucking hound</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Okay, in order to help you learn to deal with your triggers, I need to know what they are,” Ray spoke with an assertiveness he normally didn’t show, “I asked you both to note down your triggers, and I’d like you to share them now.”</p><p>Sandor looked to Sansa, who was looking back at him, probably hoping he’d go first.</p><p>
  <em>Fuck. I guess I’ll be a gentleman for once. </em>
</p><p>“Right,” Sandor produced a crinkled piece of lined paper from his back pocket. Despite berating himself over it, he had followed Ray’s instructions and wrote down all the things that made him want to drink in the past week. Now he intended to rattle them off and get this over with as quickly as possible.</p><p>He took a deep breath, “Pretentious assholes. Liars. People who think they’re entitled to special treatment because they’re rich. Thinking about my brother. Looking in the mirror. When I offer my seat to a woman on the train and she looks at me like I’ve got some kind of impure motive. When they’re out of my smokes at the local bodega and I have to go to the other one where the cashier is a fucking prick. Men who wear skinny jeans. Men who wear gaudy diamond earrings. Women who walk around in skintight yoga pants and a sports bra then raise hell when some guy checks them out even though it’s exactly what she wants. People who honk just to create noise even though their honking has no impact on the flow of traffic. People who talk on the phone really loudly in elevators, stores, or restaurants… There are others but those are the main ones.”</p><p>When he was done, he looked up tentatively to see Sansa was smirking at him, “Perhaps you should’ve just told us the things that <em>don’t</em> make you want to drink.”</p><p>He snorted, “Aye, that’d be a much shorter list – one word actually: ‘nothing’.”</p><p>She chuckled and it felt like the greatest accomplishment he’d had in his entire miserable life.</p><p>Sansa cleared her throat, “I guess it’s my turn, though I’m afraid it won’t be as entertaining,” she raised her brows, “Cooking. Being in crowds. Thinking about the past. The Super at my building. Work.”</p><p>Ray looked confused, “Work makes you want to drink – I thought you enjoyed it?”</p><p>She shrugged, “I write better when I drink. In fact, I kind of can’t write when I’m sober, so… haven’t been very productive lately.”</p><p>The conversation Sandor overheard suddenly made sense. She was missing or at risk of missing a deadline because she couldn’t write when sober, and right now she was subject to random piss tests, like him, probably with the risk of a jail sentence or lost license if she wasn’t clean.</p><p>Ray continued, “Your super – are you behind on your rent?”</p><p>The girl blushed crimson, “No, the asshole just has a not-so-subtle way of suggesting <em>other</em> ways I could pay my rent…”</p><p>“Oh,” Ray said with some embarrassment, but inside Sandor was fuming. This was just the type of fucker that he couldn’t stand. He briefly fantasized about following Sansa home, finding the man, and pinning him to the wall by his neck until he promised to leave Sansa alone. She’d never even know who her <em>knight in shining armor</em> had been, but she would no longer be subjected to harassment in her own apartment building.</p><p>
  <em>But wouldn’t you want her to know it was you?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>No – that’s not the point!</em>
</p><p>Ray turned to Sandor, “It seems quite a bit of the things that set you off have to do with other people – the way they act toward you or just the way they act in general… their fashion choices, for instance.”</p><p>“Yeah, your point?”</p><p>“My point is that you <em>look</em> for reasons to get angry. Have you ever wondered why?”</p><p>“I’m not <em>looking </em>for reasons. They’re just there. Trust me, I’d rather never have to see or deal with a pretentious cunt, but the city’s filled with them.”</p><p>“Okay, let’s say you could snap your fingers and everyone that annoyed you would disappear – all the horn honkers, the skinny jean wearers, the liars, the pretentious cunts, the women who look at you like you’re a monster… Would you be happy?”</p><p>Sandor crossed his arms and exhaled loudly, “No, I think you know I wouldn’t.”</p><p>“Right. Because you’d still have your scars, and the memory of your brother.”</p><p>Sandor could only stare at Ray, and the man did not break their gaze.</p><p>“In fact, perhaps you’d be worse off, because all those other superficial things really just serve as a distraction, don’t they? Or a buffer, perhaps… You <em>let</em> them bother you because it’s less painful than thinking about the things that <em>really</em> bother you.”</p><p>Sandor still could not speak. Never had anyone appraised him so accurately. Sandor immediately knew Ray was right and yet wanted to scream at him… tell him to go fuck himself with his asinine theories. He was no shrink; he was just a recovering alcoholic who fucked up his own life and now got his kicks out of pointing out how fucked up other people were.</p><p>Sansa’s eyes were darting between the two men, and it was clear that she knew how close Sandor was to snapping. Whether it was self-preservation or pity that compelled her, she got Ray’s attention, “Ray, you said you’d give us tips to cope with the things that trigger us. But I can’t make myself write when I’m not in the proper frame of mind. And I can only get there from drinking. How the hell am I supposed to cope with that? Get a new job, give up the thing I enjoy – the thing I’m good at?”</p><p>Ray nodded, “Indeed, that’s a tough situation, but not unprecedented. As you’re probably aware many performers are dependent on booze or drugs to lose their inhibitions in order to perform on stage. Think of rock stars, for instance – if and when they get clean, they need to relearn their love of performing. Tell me, Sansa, at what age did you start drinking?”</p><p>“Sixteen.”</p><p>“And at what age did you discover your passion for writing?”</p><p>“Twelve,” she nodded sheepishly.</p><p>“So the aptitude and desire are there, your brain has just forgotten how to write when sober. It’s gotten lazy, if you will, too reliant on the creativity that booze gives you. You need to exercise it. And like any new exercise or diet regimen, most people like to have a kickstart. Maybe you need to write a poem or romance or, I don’t know, something outside your normal genre. Maybe take a creative writing class… do something to shock your brain out of its current state of idleness.”</p><p>Sansa was staring at him, a slight smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, “Wow… that’s… a <em>really</em> good idea. I’ve actually always wanted to pen a memoir for someone. Someone with an interesting life; maybe someone who’s risen above adversity… it could be a fun little side project.”</p><p>The discussion between Sansa and Ray had effectively cooled Sandor’s rage, but he still had a hard time focusing for the rest of the meeting. Luckily it seemed Ray had plenty of techniques and advice to share, so Sansa and Sandor weren’t called on to talk as much. Unfortunately Sandor couldn’t concentrate, and most of what Ray said went in one ear and out the other. When it was time to leave Sandor thanked Ray even though he heard little of what was said and headed out the door.</p><p>As always, he paused long enough to light a cigarette and zip up his jacket. The weather was crazy of late. It was Springtime but occasionally winter or summer would try to stake a claim – winter refusing to go out gently, summer trying to exert its dominion. Some days you’d have to bundle up in hat and coat, others you’d sweat through a t-shirt. Tonight was temperate, for which Sandor was grateful. As he began to walk, he heard Sansa call out from behind him, “Hey.”</p><p>He turned around, spotting her at the sidewalk just beyond the stairs of the church. He had no idea what she could possibly want to say to him, so he just responded in kind, “Hey.”</p><p>“Can I get a light?”</p><p>He nodded, producing his lighter as she approached and holding it out for her to light her cigarette. Her hands cupped his to block the wind, and when skin touched skin he struggled not to flinch.</p><p>“Thanks,” she exhaled a cone of blue-gray smoke, “My lighter crapped out.”</p><p>“Mmm.”</p><p>She bit her lip, looking self-conscious, “I didn’t get a chance to eat before the meeting, I’m going to the little diner on 5<sup>th</sup> and Blackwater. If you didn’t eat, and you’d want to join me…”</p><p>Sandor snorted, “I lit your cigarette, girl, you don’t owe me anything.”</p><p>She looked shocked by his words yet not put off by his curtness as she responded without backing down, “I know I don’t. Who the hell would think that?”</p><p>“Well why else would you want to have dinner with me?”</p><p>She rolled her eyes, “I don’t want to <em>“have dinner”</em> with you,” she used air quotes. “I’m getting a bite to eat because I’m hungry. And if you’re also hungry you can join me in getting said bite. Don’t make a fucking <em>thing</em> of it,” she began walking in the direction they both were headed regardless of his decision.</p><p>“Mmm…” he felt like an ass. He always assumed the worst about people, assumed they were liars, or they’d only associate with him because they had some kind of angle, “Yeah, the burgers are good there; I could eat.”</p><p>“Now we’re making progress…” she said mockingly.</p><p>“Don’t fucking do that,” he snapped.</p><p>“Do what?”</p><p>“Be a smart ass.”</p><p>“I’m smart, and I’m an ass. It can’t be helped,” she waved a hand dismissively, still not intimidated by his demeanor.</p><p>Much as he wanted to be mad, he couldn’t. She was funny. She’d cracked a joke, and he’d liked it. Instead he just groaned, “Well I’m dumb and I’m an ass, so don’t feel too badly.”</p><p>She chuckled. <em>There it is again, that lovely sound…</em></p><p>They had another four blocks to walk, and Sandor willed time to slow down. Once they were in the diner with the harsh overhead lighting, sitting face-to-face, he’d have to bear the feeling of her eyes on his scars – or her avoidance of his scars. Now in the darkness of night, walking side-by-side, Sandor thought he might be able to have a semi-normal conversation with her. But alas, they arrived at the diner. He held the door open for her but made a point not to look at her ass. Well, he made a point not to let his eyes linger.</p><p>She looked around almost nervously, “You mind if we sit down there at the far end of the counter instead of a table?” It was an old school diner, very narrow, with only two seating options – high-backed booths that ran along the windows, or swivel stools at the counter. At this hour there were plenty of both options, but Sandor was glad she chose the counter where they wouldn’t be facing each other.</p><p>“That’s fine,” Sandor mumbled. It occurred to him that she didn’t want to sit across from him any more than he wanted to sit across from her, and that realization disappointed him. But at least she chose to do something about it instead of subjecting them both to an hour of awkwardness.</p><p>She turned and looked at him, clearly hearing something in his voice that she interpreted as displeasure, “I mean, we can sit at a booth if you want; I just have this thing… it’s weird…” her cheeks blushed a pretty shade of pink.</p><p>“What thing?”</p><p>Her eyes focused on the pie carousel near the entrance as she spoke to him, “I like to be able to see my surroundings. The high-back of the booth blocks my view… I dunno, makes me feel claustrophobic or vulnerable or… something.”</p><p>“Mm… I know what you mean. I always choose a seat where I have clear view of the door. I’d like to say it goes back to my days in security, but it’s been that way since I was a kid, really.”</p><p>She smiled, seemingly glad he shared her weird aversion to restaurant booths, “Right? Not that I’d know what to do if some gunman came in, but I want to at least see him coming!”</p><p>“Don’t worry, I’d know what to do.”</p><p>“Yeah, I guess you would…” her eyes flicked to his chest, involuntarily, he thought, then quickly darted to the approaching waitress. The woman steered them to the counter with two menus, though both seemed to know what they wanted as the menus went untouched. The waitress returned with their drinks a minute later but disappeared again without giving them a chance to order.</p><p>They sipped their sodas in silence for awkward minutes.</p><p>Sandor exhaled, “The only thing that sucks about sitting at the counter though—”</p><p>“Wait, don’t tell me. Reminds you of sitting at a bar, which makes you want a drink. Either that or seeing your distorted reflection in the mirror. By the way, why do all diners have mirrors along the back wall?”</p><p>Sandor was momentarily stunned and realized his mouth was open when Sansa turned back to him, “Well, was I right?”</p><p>He snorted, “Uncannily, on both counts.”</p><p>She held up her Coca Cola in toast, “Here’s to pretending this has some Jack in it.”</p><p>“Aye. You know, I actually forgot what Coke tasted like?”</p><p>“You mean by itself?”</p><p>“Yeah, without any whiskey in it. I swear a couple weeks ago I had my first <em>virgin </em>Coke for the first time in Gods know how long, and I thought I had gotten diet by mistake.”</p><p>She laughed, “I know what you mean. And – side note – I hate diet soda. Seriously, if you need to lose weight, just drink water.”</p><p>Sandor chuckled, then drew the paper out of his back pocket, snatching a pen from a few feet away on the counter where a customer had recently signed their receipt. He began writing, and Sansa leaned over, “What are you doing?”</p><p>“I’m adding to my list: <em>fat people who order diet soda</em>.”</p><p>She laughed, “Okay, that’s kind of mean; maybe they’re really trying to lose weight, and step one is by cutting liquid calories out of their diet.”</p><p>“Aye, whatever, I never said this list was rational. I make no claims of sanity, you should know that about me before you invite me to eat with you.”</p><p>When he turned to meet her eyes she was grinning impishly, “Sanity is over-rated, and if you ask me, a little boring.”</p><p>Something about the way she held his gaze while speaking in that mischievous, almost secretive tone made Sandor’s cock throb. If he didn’t know for a fact that someone that looked like <em>her</em> would never be attracted to someone who looked like <em>him</em>, he’d swear she was flirting.</p><p>“Ready to order?” a croaky woman’s voice broke their gaze.</p><p>Sansa nodded, “I’ll have grilled cheese with extra bacon and a side of sweet potato fries.”</p><p>Sandor added, “Bacon cheeseburger, medium, with fries.”</p><p>The waitress was gone, and they fell into an awkward silence, the previous momentum of the conversation gone.</p><p>“So, what do you think of our little study group?” Sansa asked, clearly trying to break the silence.</p><p>“Hmpf. Better than the other group.”</p><p>Sansa nodded. Sandor felt the need to continue speaking, afraid she might ask him questions he did not want to answer if allowed the chance, “Ray’s alright. I think he means well. Isn’t condescending.”</p><p>“Yeah, I like him,” she agreed. “Is it wrong that after he shared some of his past my first reaction was, ‘I bet this guy has a lot of fun stories – wonder if he’d let me buy him a drink’?”</p><p>“Hah! Not weird, I kind of thought the same thing. You know the partying back in the seventies had to be good.”</p><p>“I know, right? I swear I was born in the wrong generation. Why couldn’t I have been alive when coke was cool, and you could smoke anywhere you wanted?”</p><p>Sandor nodded, “I feel the same way about the guy who owns the motorcycle shop. He did so much shit that he’d be in jail for today. Back then you used to be able to punch a guy in the mouth if he disrespected you... Either you won or he won, but the matter was settled without the cops being called. Now the cops are involved for every little fucking thing.”</p><p>She frowned, “I’m afraid you and I have different experiences in that regard. Blame it on gender, I guess. Try getting the cops to take you seriously when you’re a pretty little girl,” there was bitterness in her tone.</p><p>“It’s 2019 and you’re a white woman – what could you <em>possibly</em> have to complain about?”</p><p>Now she looked downright insulted, “Nothing you could <em>possibly</em> understand.”</p><p>Their meals were brought out, and Sandor welcomed the distraction this time. He had the distinct feeling that he had broached very sensitive territory and did so in a very insensitive way.</p><p>He was more than halfway done his burger before he summoned what he hoped were the right words, “I’m a dumbass, remember?” he picked at his fries unenthusiastically, “But it seems to me you and I have a couple things in common. We both love booze, and we’ve both had fucked up lives. I think maybe it would… fuck… if you want to talk, it might make you feel better, like Ray said. And I’ll listen.”</p><p>She shrugged, “It really wasn’t even a big deal. In fact, on the list of shit that’s gone wrong in my life, it may not even break the top 5… but I had this rather <em>unpleasant</em> experience with a man sworn to serve and protect… I know most cops are good, unfortunately I got one of the bad apples, I suppose.”</p><p>“How so?”</p><p>She sighed, “I was twenty. I was at this club with my friends Mya and Myranda. It wasn’t really my scene, but they were both more… <em>worldly</em> than I was… I’d rather have been at home watching <em>Breaking Bad </em>and drinking a bottle of wine. Or working on a book. But Myranda convinced me to stop being a homebody for one night. We got all dolled up and went out to this night club. I guess Myranda knew someone to get us in even though we were underage… So there was this guy there that kept hitting on me. He was actually kind of charming about it, at first…”</p><p>Sansa’s cheeks blushed as if embarrassed to have fallen for some asshole’s <em>charm</em> – as Sandor was certain this story was going. Habit made him want to tell her that whatever happened served her right, but his heart wouldn’t have been behind those words, so he just waited for her to continue.</p><p>She seemed to be agonizing over whether to proceed. Finally she spoke down to her half-eaten sandwich. Sandor noted she had eaten all of the crust but left some of the cheesiest center bites. It was unusual but somehow endearing.</p><p>Sansa rolled her eyes, “Fucking Myranda, she thought he was so hot. I should’ve told her that she could have him. But I guess I liked the attention on some level. A guy my age, seemingly nice and normal, unlike every other guy I’d met up to that point. I didn’t know who he was, I was new to the city, and it was only after he took me and my friends back to some private room that I realized he was some kind of rich kid playboy. That turned me off right away, so I decided I’d just hang out, drink for free, and head home after a bit,” she shook her head in a self-mocking kind of way but Sandor was too busy trying to slow his heart rate down to think about her discomfort or shame. This story sounded way too familiar; the <em>guy</em> in the story sounded way too familiar.</p><p>
  <em>But there must be dozens, no hundreds, maybe thousands of guys like him, right? Using mommy and daddy’s money to go out and try to impress girls… </em>
</p><p>“It’s so stupid,” she continued, “I knew by then how the world worked, how men could be. I wasn’t naïve, but I just didn’t see it coming. I guess I felt safe because there were other people around, including my so-called friends. Last thing I remember was telling Mya I was ready to leave and her asking if we could stay for one more drink…” Sansa shook her head, “I woke up the next morning in my apartment, but with no recollection of how I’d gotten there. And I could feel…” she blushed again, “well I could tell someone had done something to me. My friends told me that I left with that guy the night before, that I looked drunk, but I went willingly. But I didn’t remember any of it.”</p><p>She sighed, “It took me three days to work up the courage to go to the police station to make a report. When I told them the guy’s name the officer taking my statement literally stopped writing and in no uncertain terms told me to drop it. He made an excuse that with me being unconscious I couldn’t even be my own witness, and that after so many days there would be no more… <em>physical</em> evidence. I told him I still wanted to make a statement, even if they couldn’t do anything about it. I guess I thought it would be on record, in case there was another girl in my same situation in the future. The cop literally took me by the elbow, walked me out to the street, and told me that if I knew what was good for me I wouldn’t speak of the incident ever again – not to the cops, not to my family or friends, not to <em>anyone</em>. Frankly I didn’t even <em>want</em> to tell anyone. My fucking friends made it sound like I should be fucking <em>thankful</em> – or consider myself lucky… I don’t think they believed me fully… Well I’d had more than my fill of being <em>grateful </em>to some jerk who just wanted to use me. Two months later I got a check for ten-grand for some of the stories I had submitted to that publisher. I put that money down on another apartment and got the fuck out of there. I couldn’t stand the idea of that blond prick knowing where I lived,” she snorted, “I had moved in there to get away from one asshole and moved out to get away from another asshole.”</p><p>By some miracle Sandor had heard most of her words over the sound of swooshing in his ears. Suddenly he knew exactly why she looked so familiar. He didn’t have to ask the name of the blond cunt, or for her address at the time, or for any other detail that would confirm what he already knew. The blond cunt was Joffrey Baratheon, his former boss, or more accurately the sniveling little turd he babysat on behalf of the turd’s mother, his actual boss, Cersei Lannister. It was a secret known by everyone that the Lannister family was <em>connected. </em>Sandor worked for them from age 20 to 28, first as an enforcer, then as Cersei’s bodyguard, then as her son’s.</p><p>He felt himself sweat as he thought about the event Sansa was referring to. There should have been nothing remarkable about that night. He’d done something similar about a half dozen times before over the years. He told himself that girl, that night, was just the straw that broke the camel’s back, but he knew there was more to it than that.</p><p>Staring down at his Coke, turning a light amber from the melting ice cubes, he remembered <em>that</em> night…</p><p>Sandor was woken up around 3:30 in the morning to the vibrating of his cellphone. Of course it was the little cunt, Joffrey. Sandor had been off duty that night, but he knew he was about to be ordered to do something unsavory on behalf of his <em>boss.</em></p><p>“Dog,” Joffrey’s carefree voice spoke through the phone, “Need you to make a delivery for me.”</p><p>Sandor rubbed his eyes, “Alright. Give me twenty.” He didn’t need to ask what kind of delivery. It was Joffrey’s <em>clever</em> code to tell Sandor there was an unconscious chick at his house that he was done playing with for the night. Sandor’s job was to root through the girl’s purse, find her ID and keys, and drive her limp body back to her house or apartment, then carry her to bed. Without being seen, of course. On the one occasion he was seen by a nosy neighbor, he kept his scars hidden and mumble something like, “My friend had too much to drink tonight.”</p><p>The particular girl he found in Joffrey’s bed that night was wearing a dark blue bandage dress. He found her heels and panties on the floor – Joff’s doing, no doubt – and her purse on Joff’s sofa. He always tried to avoid seeing the girl’s faces. It was easier not to think of them as human beings. It was easier to assume they were some tramps after Joff’s wealth or pretty face. Of course, that would have been an easier pill to swallow if they were just drunk and not completely unconscious from whatever Joff had spiked their drinks with.</p><p>This girl had sleek, copper red hair with blond highlights, about chin length. Her skin was fair and freckled, and Sandor remembered thinking she might actually be a natural redhead. <em>Joff must be expanding his horizons,</em> Sandor thought, <em>he normally goes for brunettes with spray tans.</em></p><p>Sandor sighed. He left the panties where they were but picked up her heels and purse and hauled the girl over his shoulder as he’d done before with other girls. He’d forgotten to look at her ID, so he handed Joff her purse.</p><p>“1001 South Tenth, 8B,” Joff stated indifferently.</p><p>“Right. You know the drill,” Sandor reminded him as he walked out the door. “The drill” was a precaution they had in place. If cops ever came to question Joff, he was to say that he and the girl came back to his apartment, had consensual, <em>conscious</em> sex, then drank a couple nightcaps. The girl passed out and he called his bodyguard to take her home since Joff himself had also been drinking. The cops the Lannisters had on payroll would make sure that there was a “mix up” with any lab work, so no one would be able to prove there was anything in her system other than booze.</p><p>He was still staring at his soda, lost in thought when Sansa spoke again, “Sorry, I… I don’t know why I told you that. I haven’t talked about it in… well, I’ve never talked about it after initially telling the cops and my friends. This fucking support group is turning me into a chatterbox I guess.”</p><p>Sandor looked at her hand, “Oh… yeah, it’s alright.” He wracked his brain for something soothing or compassionate to say. Remembering that Joff died three years ago in what was made to look like a drug deal gone wrong but was most definitely a hit put out by someone that Joff or the Lannister/Baratheon family had wronged, he offered some consolation, “At least he’s dead now. Can’t bother you or anyone else ever again.”</p><p>As soon as the words were out of his mouth Sandor realized his error, and felt an instant cold sweat as he prayed the girl wouldn’t notice. But she did... Of course she did, “I didn’t tell you he was dead,” she eyed him curiously.</p><p>“Yeah, um, I think I know the guy you are talking about, and, if I’m right, he’s dead… Joffrey Baratheon?”</p><p>She looked to her plate, then back to him, and repeated the motion two more times, “How would you know who I was talking about?” Now the look in her eyes was downright wary.</p><p>“It was just a guess, girl. I used to run with some pretty seedy people, and I knew of all the crooks in the city. Joffrey had a reputation for certain <em>behavior</em> with women…” Sandor searched for more clues that would make her believe he’d simply guessed Joff’s identity, “And he was blond, and rich. And would’ve been of an age with you. And his family had cops in their pocket.” Sandor should have felt guilty in that moment, but all he felt was fear that she would figure out that he had previously worked for Joffrey.</p><p>Would it even matter if he told her that after putting her in her bed he went to her bathroom and puked into the toilet because he was sick with shame? Would it matter that he returned to her room and watched her sleep for a few minutes, face down as he’d placed her so she wouldn’t choke on her own vomit? Or that he traced his finger lightly along the black and white tattoo of a dead flower she had on her left shoulder blade?</p><p>Would it matter that the next morning he decided to begin extricating himself from the Lannister/Baratheon family, even though he knew it was dangerous to do so?</p><p>Would it matter that six months after parting ways with his old life he got a tattoo of a skull made out of flowers because he couldn’t stop thinking about the girl, and wondering what her tattoo meant? He knew what his meant, it represented the death of the old him, and the promise of the new him. Only the new him wasn’t much better. Sure he had a good job, didn’t profit from illegal or unethical activities anymore, but he drank way too much, still felt angry most of the time, still wanted to kill half the people he met in this blasted city. Still hated himself…</p><p>Sansa’s eyes were still narrowed on him but after a few agonizing seconds they relaxed, “Wow. That’s pretty good. Maybe you’ll be the inspiration for the investigator in my next novel.”</p><p>He chuckled a bit too loudly as relief poured out of him.</p><p>She grinned and began prattling on about this fictional character that would be loosely based on Sandor, “No offense, but the scars make for a very intriguing back story. There will be two mysteries – one, of course, will be whatever crime he’s investigating. But the reader will also get some clues about the investigator himself, so they can try to piece together what happened to him in his past... How he got his scars, what made him want to go into a profession defending the innocent, or at least hunting down criminals…”</p><p>Sandor felt a momentary shame that he went into quite the opposite profession and reminded himself to write a check to a woman’s shelter or something comparable next time he got a particularly big job at the shop. Or perhaps he’d pull from his savings; there was plenty in there, what he’d stashed away during his time as a well-paid bodyguard for the wealthy cunts. He didn’t like spending the money on himself, knowing it was effectively blood money, but donating it or investing it in some philanthropic cause… why hadn’t he thought of that before?</p><p>Sansa’s head was still working, and she pulled a pen and notebook out of her purse, beginning to scribble furiously. He tried to see what he was writing, but she angled herself to place her shoulder between him and her notebook. It only succeeded in giving him a good whiff of her shampoo and a good look at the copper locks that were much longer now, and wavy, and without the blond highlights. Given her complexion and personality he thought this a much better fit, and he had to literally clasp his hands together to resist the temptation to run his fingers through her hair. He wanted to know how soft it was.</p><p>Finally he let out a long exhale, “I’m the inspiration, don’t I get a say in my character?”</p><p>She nodded but didn’t stop writing, “You will. I’ll consult you when I have questions, I’m just putting together a strawman.” She turned back to study his face, making him feel instantly self-conscious, “I need to come up with a good moniker… something that captures your tenacity and your appearance.”</p><p>“I’m tenacious?”</p><p>“Yes, never leave a case unsolved. Like an addiction to solving the puzzle. You’ll have an addictive personality, I think…”</p><p>“Mmm… is this fiction or a biography?”</p><p>She rolled her eyes good-naturedly, “Don’t worry, I’ll change enough details so no one who knows you will know it’s inspired by you…”</p><p>
  <em>Don’t worry, nobody knows me.</em>
</p><p>“The Shark? No,” she bit her lip.</p><p><em>The Hound? </em>Sandor inwardly laughed. It’s what the Lannisters and their retainers had started calling him when they realized he was obedient, could sniff out trouble from a mile away, and was ferocious in a fight.</p><p>“The badger? Eh, maybe…”</p><p>He smiled, inexplicably pleased to be the subject of her musings.</p><p>“Bear? Grisly? No, too obvious, plus bears seem kind of dopey…”</p><p>“Well thank you for not making me seem dopey.”</p><p>She ignored his playful retort, “Wolf? But they’re pack animals. You’d have to be the <em>lone wolf</em> and that’s over-done, don’t you think?”</p><p>
  <em>You’re getting warmer… at least in the canine family now…</em>
</p><p>“Something feline would be good but they all sound either cheesy or feminine. Can’t exactly call you the ‘cougar’, can I? Besides, they’re deadly, but kind of lazy – the opposite of tenacious… you’re not a cat playing cruelly with a mouse, you’re a... a…”</p><p>
  <em>Almost there! I know you can get it!</em>
</p><p>“A dog with a bone!”</p><p>
  <em>Yes!!</em>
</p><p>“A pit bull!”</p><p>
  <em>No!!</em>
</p><p>“No, a <em>bulldog!</em> Ugh, but they’re lazy. A bull terrier? They’re tenacious, clever… Oh, but people will picture Spud McKenzie and I’m sorry but that is one ugly dog. And if I just call you ‘terrier’, people will picture Toto from Wizard of Oz. Plus it needs to be more concise. He’s a man of few words, it needs to reflect his penchant for brevity.”</p><p>“Why does it need to be a specific breed?” Sandor asked, feigning casual interest.</p><p>Her eyes gleamed with excitement, “Yeah… yeah… just ‘dog’… no, wait, that sounds derogatory, or like “yo, dawg!” and you’re definitely not into the hip-hop scene. You’d be more blues and classic rock. Yeah, blues… because it reflects your somber personality. But rock reflects your angst and energy… so you’re the intersection of blues and rock… like early Eric Clapton, or Jimi Hendrix… or Dire Straits, or even some folk rock… Johnny Cash… yeah!!” she threw her head back and laughed, “Oh my Gods!”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>She continued giggling as she produced her phone and with a few clicks she was playing Johnny Cash’s “Dirty Old Egg Sucking Dog” on YouTube.</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>Well he's not very handsome to look at<br/></em>
    <em>h</em>
    <em>e's shaggy and eats like a hog<br/></em>
    <em>And he's always killing my chickens<br/></em>
    <em>That dirty old egg-sucking dog</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Egg-sucking dog<br/></em>
    <em>I'm gonna stomp your head in the ground<br/></em>
    <em>If you don't stay out of my hen house<br/></em>
    <em>You dirty old egg-sucking hound</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Now if he don't stop eating my eggs up<br/></em>
    <em>Though I'm not a real bad guy<br/></em>
    <em>I'm going to get my rifle and send him<br/></em>
    <em>To that great chicken house in the sky</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Egg-sucking dog<br/></em>
    <em>You're always hanging around<br/></em>
    <em>But you'd better stay out of my hen house<br/></em>
    <em>You dirty old egg-sucking hound</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>Sandor knew Johnny Cash, yet he’d never heard this song. Clearly Sansa had though, as she mouthed along to every single word. While she stared at the screen, Sandor stared at her. As the last verse was sung, she bit her lip to repress a grin, and turned, slightly startled to find Sandor staring at her, but apparently not bothered as she did nothing to look away or put more space between them.</p><p>Her blue eyes flicked between his mouth and eyes, but for once Sandor didn’t try to hide himself. There was no disgust in her eyes. There was only curiosity, and maybe something else…</p><p>Was it seconds or minutes they stayed like that – studying the other’s face with not more than two feet between them? Her smile, which had become sheepish while their eyes were locked, turned back into a full-fledged grin. She leaned in even closer as if to share a secret, “You dirty… old… egg sucking… <em>hound.”</em></p><p>Her words sent a shiver from his ear to his cock, but he refused to break her gaze. Quick as a fox she planted a peck on his cheek, a bit too close to his mouth to be considered purely platonic, but not close enough to be considered an invitation.</p><p>His eyes went wide, and he was pretty sure his tan skin was whatever color he turned when he blushed. The girl was as red as a cherry, and Sandor involuntarily imagined her chest would be a similar shade after an hour of vigorous fucking.</p><p>
  <em>Fuck; keep it in your pants.</em>
</p><p>She swirled her watered-down cola in an obvious attempt to distract herself from her bold move. He wanted to tell her that there was no need to be embarrassed, that that chaste kiss had been the greatest thing to happen to him in months, maybe years. Maybe his whole fucking life, because in truth all the other contact he’d had with women had been quite the opposite. They didn’t kiss his ugly, scarred cheek just for the hell of it. Most didn’t even kiss his lips or neck when he was balls-deep inside them. They wanted his cock or his connections. He didn’t mind sharing the former, but he made no allusions that they’d get the latter. If they assumed a bodyguard could somehow get them an introduction to the wealthy and influential family, they had no one to blame but their own stupidity.</p><p>Not that such encounters were all that frequent. The women who followed Joffrey and his entourage tended to be party girls. They were usually drunk or stoned – or both – and Sandor didn’t get off on fucking some girl who didn’t know what she was doing. And after parting ways with the Lannisters, Sandor had very few dates.</p><p>Sansa looked back at him, seemingly feeling the need to justify the kiss even as he was still basking in it, “Sorry, I just… I get excited when I get a new idea, and it hasn’t happened for a while because, well, you know…”</p><p>
  <em>Because you’re sober.</em>
</p><p>She chewed her lip nervously, “And beyond that, it was actually kind of nice to talk to you. I hope I didn’t drone on too much, but if I did, I guess I’ll just have to return the favor when…  you know, whenever you feel like talking.”</p><p>He nodded, “Yeah, sounds good. And no worries… I’m in no position to complain about a pretty girl kissing me.”</p><p>He hoped it sounded funny, but the look on her face said otherwise, “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re… trust me, I’ve met a lot of assholes, and you’re not one of them. I sometimes think pretty faces hide dark souls…”</p><p>He laughed at how her statement was both poetic and true, but once again she misinterpreted his reaction, “Oh no! I didn’t mean that…”</p><p>“It’s alright girl,” he waved his hand, “I know what I am and what I’m not. And I agree with you about all the pricks out there, hiding behind pretty faces. Like to think I can sniff ‘em out a mile away.”</p><p>She smiled, “Like a hound?”</p><p>“Aye,” he chuckled, “like a hound.”</p><p>She nodded, “Well, this has been actually a really good night and, well, thanks for listening and for not judging and like I said, whenever I can return the favor, let me know. But I need to go home to get in front of my PC before all my ideas go out the window. I have a feeling I won’t be sleeping much for a while!”</p><p>He nodded, “Well, I guess I’m flattered that you’ll be staying up all night thinking about me… Oh! I mean, fuck, not <em>me… </em>but the character…”</p><p>She laughed, “Sandor, it’s alright, I knew what you meant. Oh, by the way, can I get your number?”</p><p>“Huh?”</p><p>She rolled her eyes, “Your <em>phone</em> number, in case I want to run anything by you. Though, damn, I gotta finish my other project and now it’s the last thing I want to do but I have a deadline… but maybe in a few weeks I’ll be focusing on this. Oh I hope my publisher authorizes the idea!”</p><p>She was off on a tangent again, but all Sandor could think about was her calling him some night, asking him what his favorite color was or some other detail she wanted to incorporate in her story. Or maybe she’d run the plot by him and ask his opinion. Or ask for help creating the character’s backstory… <em>Fuck, now I’m the one running off on a tangent…</em></p><p>He cleared his throat, “Yeah, um, want me to put it in your phone?”</p><p>She nodded and handed him her phone. His fingers almost trembled as he typed his name and number into her contacts. She watched over him and giggled.</p><p>“What’s so funny?”</p><p>“I thought your name was spelled S-A-N-D-<em>E</em>-R.”</p><p>“Like, an orbital sander?”</p><p>“Yeah, well Ray says it that way…”</p><p>“Aye, he says it right. When you say it fast it doesn’t come out like ‘San-<em>Door’</em>…”</p><p>“Right. Makes sense.”</p><p>She was turning to go when he stopped her, then struggled to come up with an excuse, “Uhh… if you come up for air anytime soon and wanna… grab lunch or dinner… whatever, I’m only a few blocks from here.” <em>Fuck you sound like a moron!</em></p><p>But she only smiled and nodded in response, “Sounds good. Goodnight, <em>San-DOOR</em>.”</p><p>And then she was gone, out into the dark streets. He reached into his wallet before realizing she had left forty bucks on the counter – more than enough for their two meals and a generous tip. Sandor looked over to the waitress where she was wiping down the coffee machines. He wondered if she had kids, and where they were while she worked the night shift at a diner on a Wednesday. He dropped another forty bucks on the counter, grabbed his coat, and walked out, catching a brief whiff of the menthol cigarette Sansa must have lit up shortly after exiting the diner.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. It was supposed to be a punishment</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Short, fun chapter.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sandor shouldn’t have expected a call from Sansa, but that didn’t stop him from being disappointed each time a day came and went without hearing from her. At least he knew he’d see her on Wednesday.</p><p>By Sunday he’d given up on hearing from her, which was why he didn’t even consider expecting to hear her voice when he answered his phone at two o’clock that afternoon.</p><p>“Hullo,” he answered gruffly.</p><p>“Hey, Sandor?”</p><p>He bolted out of his recliner where he’d been watching a football game, “Uh, yeah… Sansa?”</p><p>“Yeah. Umm… did I catch you at a bad time?”</p><p>“No, just… watching the Stags game and, ya know, looking away when the beer commercials come on.”</p><p>She laughed, but it was a bit forced, “So, no big deal if you’re busy or just not in the mood to go out but… well, I’ve been eating Ramen noodles since Thursday, working nonstop trying to crank out this draft, and I… well I need to get out of the house. I haven’t eaten yet today, so I was going to go down to the diner and thought you might want to come. I know it’s kind of between lunch and dinner, but we can pretend we’re eighty-years-old.”</p><p>He laughed, “Some days I’m feel like I’m eighty, so that fits.”</p><p>She chuckled, “So, wanna meet there at three? I just need to shower and change, ‘cause I smell like someone who hasn’t showered in three days.”</p><p>“Is that because you haven’t showered in three days?”</p><p>“No,” she giggled, “What would give you that idea?”</p><p>Sandor felt himself smiling into the phone like a fool. He cleared his throat, “Yeah, three o’clock is fine. My treat though, you paid last time.”</p><p>“Fair enough.”</p><p>“Alright, see you in a bit.”</p><p>“Bye, Sandor.”</p><p>Sandor put down the phone and looked around his apartment in shocked joy, wishing there was a person or even a dog who he could brag to about going out with Sansa.</p><p>Of course, he wasn’t ‘going out’ with her… was he? Was this a date? No… girls didn’t go on dates to run-down diners on Sunday afternoon. They were hanging out. That was it. But that was even better, right? Because if it <em>were</em> a date, he’d have to agonize over what to wear and what to say, and whether to invite her back to his place afterwards, or whether to kiss her when they parted ways…</p><p>Deciding he too was a bit ripe after this morning’s workout, he took advantage of the hour to shower and try to think about things to talk about. He could tell her about the latest bike he’d been working on. He could ask about the book she was finishing up. Maybe he’d ask what she did for fun and hope she wouldn’t return the question since he pretty much had no life outside of work.</p><p>The hour flew by and before he knew it, he was standing outside the diner, watching Sansa approach.</p><p>“Hey, Sandor!” she greeted him brightly.</p><p>“Hi,” for some reason, it felt impolite to say her name now.</p><p>“I’m starving! I literally forget to eat when I’m in the zone,” she smiled at him as he held the door for her.</p><p>She turned to the waitress who greeted them, “May we sit at the counter?”</p><p>“Sure thing, darlin’,” the older woman responded. She did an admirable job of not looking at Sandor’s scars, or looking back and forth between he and Sansa with a ‘what the fuck’ expression on her face.</p><p>Sansa was already ordering a short stack of pancakes – the diner served breakfast all day – with two over-easy eggs and a side of bacon, plus coffee and water to wash it down. Sandor decided breakfast sounded pretty good and ordered himself steak and eggs with a side of home fries.</p><p>“You’re in a good mood,” Sandor mumbled into his coffee.</p><p>“Yeah, I’ve gotten a lot of work done. Ray was right, I just needed a kickstart, who knew it would come from my surly support group friend?”</p><p>Sandor snorted, “Don’t know whether to be flattered that I’m your friend or insulted that I’m surly.”</p><p>“Take the good with the bad, I say.”</p><p>“Hmm… may there be more good than bad from here on out,” he lifted his coffee cup in toast, “Gods know I’ve had enough <em>bad</em> to fill up two lifetimes…”</p><p>“Yeah, tell me about it,” she lifted her brows, “So, what have you been up to?”</p><p>He shrugged, “Just working. Don’t know about you but being sober kind of takes the fun out of any kind of social activities…” he didn’t mention that even as a drunk he didn’t socialize.</p><p>She rolled her eyes, “I didn’t have much of a social life before, but it’s officially nonexistent now. Except for eating at diners with a fellow <em>recovering</em> <em>alcoholic</em>, of course.”</p><p>He stared at her. How could someone so pretty and, as he was learning now, <em>perky</em> not be a social butterfly. He had to know, “Look, not to judge a book by its cover, but you strike me as someone with lots of friends, someone who likes to go out, enjoy life…”</p><p>She shrugged, “I used to be. I guess it’s still in my nature, but…”</p><p>“I get it… too much bad shit to ever go back to being <em>carefree.</em>”</p><p>She smiled sadly at him, “Yeah. How about you? Have you always been, eh, <em>surly</em> … or was young Sandor more free-spirited?”</p><p>He snorted, “Girl, you have to go back a <em>very long time</em> to find a free-spirited Sandor Clegane… like maybe when I was a toddler? Probably have been a grumpy old man since preschool.”</p><p>She laughed genuinely, covering her mouth, “I’m sorry – that’s actually quite sad, but I’m just picturing a grumpy little dark-haired boy, pouting and complaining about the other kids. Like <em>“Johnny’s always wearing those ridiculous blue suspenders – who’s he trying to impress?” </em>And<em> “Sally’s skirt is far too short, she does that on purpose so Scotty will share his graham crackers with her!””</em></p><p>“Aye, sounds about right,” Sandor chuckled, “Of course, I only thought it, didn’t say it.”</p><p>“Well then perhaps you were smarter back then. I get the impression your mouth’s gotten you in some trouble in your day.”</p><p>“But nothing my fists can’t get me out of.”</p><p>The girl was silent, and when Sandor turned, he found her staring at him thoughtfully. “What, girl?”</p><p>She looked away and blushed, “Just thinking, would’ve been handy having a friend like you around.”</p><p>“Trust me,” he shook his head, “I’m nothing but trouble.”</p><p>“But trouble for me or trouble for my enemies?”</p><p>“<em>Enemies</em>? What are you a super-hero? You have <em>enemies</em>?”</p><p>She laughed at herself, “You know what I mean… or maybe you don’t. You’re big and tough-looking, probably nobody messes with you. You can think me cruel if you want, but it would have been nice to have someone like you around, my <em>vicious hound</em> I could sick on anyone who hurt me… and maybe even people who just annoyed me,” she sipped her coffee, “I never claimed to be a saint, you know.”</p><p>Suddenly her desire to hang out with him became crystal clear. She didn’t want a friend; she wanted a free bodyguard. She was no different from the Lannisters, taking advantage of his size and ferocity and willingness to do unsavory things. He shook his head and forced himself to focus on the food in front of him, though he’d lost his appetite.</p><p>“Hey, I’m just messing around…” she spoke quietly, noticing his mood change.</p><p>“Save it, girl. You think you’re the first person who wanted me around because I’m handy in a tight spot? Why don’t you stop acting like you want to be my <em>friend</em> and tell me what the fuck you want, hmm? Some ex-boyfriend you want me to rough up? Your sleezy Super need a talking to?”</p><p>“Sandor, I …”</p><p>“Whatever,” he shook his head, trying to cool his temper, but decided it was better to leave before he said or did something he’d regret. But as he stood, she pulled him down by the arm with a force he was surprised could be contained in such a small package. When he met her eyes, he knew the source – her eyes were burning with anger, and he knew better than most that anger could give a person physical strength that didn’t otherwise manifest.</p><p>“Sit down,” she whisper-shouted at him. And he did, like an obedient dog.</p><p>“Look, I don’t know what your story is, but clearly you’ve got a crater-sized chip on your shoulder about your <em>appearance</em>… and maybe I thought it would be nice for you to hear what someone else thinks about it… that people thinking you’re mean or scary isn’t <em>always</em> bad… that it has some advantages. Like you’ve probably never been mugged, have you? I know it probably sucks, too, but so does looking like a fucking baby bird that’s fallen out of her nest; trust me, okay? There isn’t an ex-boyfriend I need you to rough up for me. And I’m a big girl, I can put up with hearing the occasional comment from my super… As it happens, I enjoyed talking to you the other night and I figured… well I figured it couldn’t hurt for both of us to have a friend, or someone to talk to at least… someone who <em>gets</em> it. And maybe I don’t look like it to you, but I <em>do</em> get it. Maybe I can’t relate to having a fucked-up childhood, or a fucked-up face, but my life hasn’t been a walk in the park...”</p><p>She paused for air, but he dared not interrupt her, “And if you agree, and you want to have someone to talk to, then get it out of your head that I have some ulterior motive, alright? I’m not the one who uses people, I’m the one who gets used by people. Yet if you tell me you want to be my friend, I’m not going to accuse you of just saying that because you’re trying to get in my pants, because I can tell you’re not like that. Been around enough douche bags to recognize when someone <em>isn’t</em> a douche bag.”</p><p>The anger was still pulsing off her in waves, but Sandor couldn’t tell if she was angry at him or at all the douche bags she’d known in her life. She stabbed a fork into her eggs, spilling yolk all over her pancakes which she further doused with maple syrup then salt and pepper.</p><p>“Now eat your fucking steak before it gets cold,” she spit at him before shoving a mouthful of mushy pancake-egg concoction into her mouth.</p><p>Once again, he followed her command, cutting off and eating several bites of his steak in silence before looking back to her plate. “That looks disgusting,” he muttered. Hopefully she’d recognize it as the apology it was.</p><p>Her mouth opened in surprise, “It’s the most delicious thing <em>ever</em>. Savory and sweet, the syrup and yolk soaks into the pancake and it gushes out when you take a bite.”</p><p>He faked a gag which caused her to giggle, “Well, what about you? Not sure I’d be eating undercooked meat in a downtown diner…”</p><p>“I like to live on the edge,” he shrugged.</p><p>“Well save that courage for riding your motorcycles. E. Coli infection doesn’t sound like a fun way to go.”</p><p>“Well, think of it this way. If I die from <em>this,” </em>he shoved a forkful of red-centered steak into his mouth, “You will feel bad for inviting me here. You’ll live the rest of your life in guilt, and I’ll get to haunt you.”</p><p>He chewed proudly until he realized how harsh his words were, given the way her family died and the guilt she admitted to harboring over it, “Fuck, Sansa, I didn’t mean it… I wasn’t thinking.”</p><p>She shook her head, “It’s alright. It was a long time ago.” She looked neither upset nor happy, just blank.</p><p>“Dumbass, remember?” Sandor offered.</p><p>She only shrugged, eating her breakfast with less passion now.</p><p>“Alright. I deserve some type of punishment. You can hit me alright? Maybe it’ll make you feel better.”</p><p>She looked at him and her sorrow gave way to mischief.</p><p>“What? Not in the balls, okay?!”</p><p>She chuckled at that, “I can think of a better punishment,” she scooped up a forkful of her gross-looking pancake mixture and held it in front of his face.</p><p>“Fuck, I’d rather get punched in the nut sack,” he grumbled, earning another laugh from her. He took a deep breath, “Alright, here goes…” he ate the food off her fork and tried to summon a disgusted face but couldn’t.</p><p>She was staring at him expectantly and knowingly, “Well?”</p><p>“It’s actually pretty fucking good,” he said around a mouthful of food, shaking his head in disbelief.</p><p>“Told ya!” she exclaimed victoriously.</p><p>“But you’re forgetting something.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>He grabbed her fork out of her hand, “It was supposed to be a punishment!” Before she could stop him, he managed to scarf down three more bites, using his other hand to keep her from interfering.</p><p>“You asshole!”</p><p>“Never denied it,” he mumbled around half-chewed pancake.</p><p>She crossed her arms in mock impertinence, “Well now you know what to order for breakfast, and every time you do, you’ll think of me. But anytime you introduce someone else to it you need to give me credit. Call it the… Sansa Stark Soggy Short Stack Special!”</p><p>He threw his head back and laughed in earnest, “You have a name for it?”</p><p>She joined his reverie, “No, I actually just came up with it, but it’s catchy right?”</p><p>“No wonder you’re a writer.”</p><p>“It’s also salty… and we’re eating it on a Sunday.”</p><p>“Mmm, so you want to call it the Sansa Stark Salty Soggy Short Stack Sunday Special?”</p><p>She counted the words on her fingers, “We’ll call it 8S for short.”</p><p>The waitress stopped by to refill their coffee mugs and Sandor nodded at her, “Excuse me Gail, can I get an 8S to go?”</p><p>Sansa threw her head back in laughter and slapped him on the shoulder. He looked at her, continuing his deadpan delivery, “What? I’m a big boy, I have a big appetite!”</p><p>She rolled her eyes, “Then stick with your Sandor’s Suspicious Steak Special.”</p><p>“Hey, why’s mine only four S’s?”</p><p>“Sorry, you’re not as special,” she grinned while sipping her coffee.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. I can’t stand cliffhangers</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sandor expected the next meeting to be awkward. He and Sansa had hung out at the diner twice, and he felt like they were on the way to becoming friends, and perhaps even more, though he lacked the experience to be sure. He scolded himself for thinking so far ahead, but so deprived was he of any other relationships that Sansa was infiltrating most of his waking thoughts.</p><p>So when Ray opened up the meeting, Sandor wasn’t sure whether he should talk as he would at the diner, or as he had at their prior meetings. He felt a bit hesitant to reveal to Ray that he and Sansa had formed a friendship – if it could be called that. Would he frown upon it? Would he think they were bad influences on each other? Enablers?</p><p>If Sansa shared his concerns, she hid it well. She seemed a bit cheerier than she had been at the previous meetings, even smiling when Ray asked her about writing, “I took your advice, found inspiration in an unlikely source, and it was the kick in the pants I needed to get motivated. And I drink a lot of iced tea while I’m writing, helps me feel like… well, you know.”</p><p>Ray nodded, “Wow, that’s excellent progress in one week. How about you, Sandor, how was this week for you?”</p><p>Sandor hadn’t realized it until just now, but the week actually wasn’t too bad. The pricks in the city didn’t bother him so much as they normally did, and he could attribute it to nothing other than his blooming relationship with Sansa. He once again fought the urge to get ahead of himself in that regard. Sure, they were thrust together now because of their court-ordered support group meetings, but when that was over would Sansa forget he existed? The idea made him nervous as they only had two more meetings after this one… <em>only</em> <em>two more weeks of having an excuse to see her.</em></p><p>Sandor cleared his throat, “It was actually a pretty good week. Didn’t let stuff bother me as much as usual. I guess since you pointed out that I look for reasons to be angry, I can’t do it without proving you right, so…”</p><p>Ray smiled, “And that would be terrible wouldn’t it?”</p><p>Sandor snorted, “I guess being wrong when other people are right should get added to my list.”</p><p>Ray nodded and moved along the discussion. At some point he asked each of them to share a happy memory. Sansa went first, telling them about a family vacation to the beach when she was eight years old. Sandor was hard pressed to think of anything but managed to describe the day his dad brought home a black lab puppy. Though Sandor didn’t think back on it as a good memory, and Ray picked up on his emotions easily.</p><p>“You don’t sound that happy about it.”</p><p>Sandor scratched the back of his arm, noticing that Sansa’s eyes followed the movement, “It was. We had the dog a couple years, but… well then it died.”</p><p>Sansa looked genuinely sad, “I’m sorry! It is so sad losing a pet.”</p><p>Sandor could only nod. He didn’t want to tell them the dog didn’t just die, it disappeared one day, and he was pretty certain Gregor had used it for target practice in the woods. It was the time period when Gregor was just starting to test his strength and violence, usually hitting Sandor or otherwise tormenting him, then waiting patiently to see what type of punishment their father would dole out. Sometimes the belt would come out but more often it was a half-hearted <em>talking to</em>. As Gregor got older and bigger, it wasn’t even that much, and even at a young age Sandor suspected his father was proud of Gregor’s size and strength. Their dad was a small-time crook, and likely thought Gregor would make for good muscle to take along on jobs.</p><p>But he never lived to see that day – his father died when Sandor was twelve and Gregor was fifteen. Found shot, dead, likely by someone he’d stolen from or otherwise ripped off. Sandor remembered feeling nothing when his dad died. Or maybe, he felt relief. His father was a deadbeat who did nothing to protect his own child. Surely even the worst people have <em>some</em> instinct to protect their offspring, don’t they? Cersei Lannister immediately came to mind.</p><p>Toward the end of the meeting, Ray began to offer each of them tips for maintaining their sobriety but said this would be a focus of their next meeting.</p><p>Sandor was in a foul mood by the time they left and tried to walk quickly to put space between him and Sansa, but she caught up and grabbed his arm.</p><p>“Hey, you alright?”</p><p>“Fine,” he growled.</p><p>“You don’t seem fine.”</p><p>“I’m fine, alright. Just… got a headache, that’s all.”</p><p>“Wow… that’s the best you can come up with? You know <em>headache</em> is what women use to get out of sex, not what men use to get out of talking.”</p><p>“Don’t need to make up an excuse because I’m a grown man and if I don’t want to talk, I don’t have to. Our meeting is over.”</p><p>He was surprised that she dropped it, “Alright. I get it. I’ll see you Wednesday, okay?”</p><p>Her forgiveness of his piss poor mood only made him feel like an asshole, “Look… just… sorry. Yeah, I’ll see you Wednesday. Have a good night.”</p><p>He quickened his pace again and this time she didn’t pursue him, though some small part of him wished she would.</p><p>-------------------------------------------</p><p>Sandor was completely unfocused at work and didn’t know why all this shit was bothering him. Why did he care if their meetings were almost over? He and Sansa would either keep in touch or they wouldn’t. It’s not like they were going to fall in love, get married, have kids… He didn’t want that anyway, and he was sure she wouldn’t want it with him.</p><p>Nor should the memories have bothered him. They were always with him, even if he didn’t consciously think about them. His shitty childhood and fucked up family were literally written on his face. But the anger that lived right at the surface all through his teens and early twenties had been mostly tamped down for the past decade. Now it was bubbling back up to the surface and Sandor didn’t know why.</p><p>“What the fuck is up your ass, kid?” Selmy shouted over to him across the garage.</p><p>“Nothing.”</p><p>“You threw a wrench this morning because it had the nerve to be the wrong size, and it just took you an hour to change an air filter. You’re distracted, and you know that—”</p><p>“I know, I know. Distraction is dangerous. We work at a garage, not a pillow store.”</p><p>“So, take the day and get yourself right, it’s a Friday anyway.”</p><p>“I’m fine.”</p><p>“Take five, then. Smoke a cigarette, clear your head. You’re not working here when you’re distracted.”</p><p>With a scowl Sandor headed out back by the dumpsters and lit up. The nicotine calmed him somewhat, but he knew he needed to figure his shit out, to figure out why he was so bothered by the past that he liked to keep buried.</p><p>
  <em>Because it reminds you of how fucked up you are. How totally incapable you are of having a normal, healthy relationship. </em>
</p><p>“Fuck,” Sandor mumbled to himself. Not only did he have a shitty life, but he couldn’t talk about it to anyone. He hated talking about himself, and he knew enough about women to know they liked talking. They were insulted when men didn’t open up to them.</p><p>But then Ray’s words from a few meetings ago came back to him… how Ray’s biggest regret was not opening up to his wife when he had the chance. Ray must have done some fucked up shit during his life as a drunk with untreated PTSD, yet <em>that</em> was the thing he regretted most of all…</p><p>Without giving himself a chance to rethink it, Sandor pulled his phone from his pocket and found Ray’s number. He partly hoped Ray wouldn’t answer, but he did… of course.</p><p>“Hey, Sandor. What can I do for you?”</p><p>“So… the dog I told you about on Wednesday?”</p><p>“Yeah…”</p><p>“It died, but it wasn’t cancer or anything like that. I’m pretty sure my brother shot it to practice with his new gun, or maybe just for the hell of it.”</p><p>“Oh…”</p><p>“Everything that was ever nice or good, he took.”</p><p>“That’s… that must have been hard.”</p><p>“Whatever, I just wanted to let you know. I’ll see you next week.” Sandor ended the call. He stood very still, waiting to see whether he would feel <em>lighter</em>. It took a few minutes, and another cigarette, but he did feel somehow calmed. He walked back inside and finished his work, deciding that he would ask Sansa to hang out again on Sunday, and try to make up for being a jerk toward her after the meeting.</p><p>-------------------------------------------</p><p>
  <strong>Sunday 2:23 PM</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Me: Hey. I’ve been craving an 8S all week. </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Sansa: Oh? If only there were an establishment nearby where one could procure such fine fare.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Me: Haha smartass. You hungry or not?</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Sansa: Always </strong>
  <strong>😊. Shower first.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Me: Need help?</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Me: Sorry, bad joke. Dumbass, remember?</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Sansa: How could I forget? </strong>
  <strong>😊</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Sansa: It looks nice out. Maybe go to the park afterwards for a walk? Burn off the 8S?</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Me: Sure. It is nice out. I know because I went out to get cigarettes, I’m a real outdoorsman.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Sansa: LOL. </strong>
  <strong>You do kinda look like a lumberjack.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Me: Umm… thanks? Anyway hurry with your shower. My stomach’s growling. </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Sansa: I thought I was waiting for you to come help me? </strong>
  <strong>😉</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>…</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Sansa: What, you can joke about it but I can’t?</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>…</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Me: Sorry thought we were done. Put my phone down.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Sansa: Whatever. See you in a bit.</strong>
</p><p>When Sandor got to the diner Sansa was already there, and he was surprised to see she wasn’t wearing her usual jeans or sweatpants with an oversized sweatshirt. She had on shorts, sneakers, and a loose-fitting t-shirt. It was odd to see so much skin exposed, though by city standards she was still dressed conservatively. Still, Sandor couldn’t pull his eyes off her long pale legs. He’d never given much thought to what his ‘type’ was, but he never would have suspected it was someone so fair skinned. And yet so many lustful images raced through his mind – including how her pale legs would contrast against his tan torso if she were to wrap her legs around his waist. He also finally understood why men spoke about ‘milky white thighs’ as if it were a good thing. He wanted hers trembling on either side of his head…</p><p>Realizing he was staring he finally raised his eyes to her face and found her staring at him shyly. There was nothing he could say to defend his gaping, so he just opened the door for her, noting that she yanked on her shorts as if trying to turn them into pants.</p><p>“I know it isn’t that hot yet, but my A/C isn’t working, and I live on the seventh floor. It’s a wall unit, but it cools the whole apartment since it’s only about 600 square feet.”</p><p>“Won’t the landlord pay to get it fixed? Or buy a new one?”</p><p>“Eventually. I just want to put off the conversation as long as possible.”</p><p>“Oh, right. The pervert.”</p><p>Sansa shrugged, “I don’t think he’s like, a <em>sicko</em> or anything. Just… cocky, I guess. Like he turns every interaction into an opportunity to hit on me. But he’s never like, grabbed me or anything.”</p><p>“Oh, well in that case, he sounds like a saint,” Sandor rolled his eyes.</p><p>Sansa smiled, “Hey, I’ve known enough <em>real </em>sickos to know there is room for shades of gray on the moral scale.”</p><p>Sandor nodded; he couldn’t disagree there. He wondered where she ranked Joffrey but knew not to ask.</p><p>They were seated at what now felt like their usual spot, and both ordered an 8S, though while Sansa got a side of crispy bacon, Sandor got sausage patties.</p><p>“So… am I owed any royalties yet?” she asked after washing down a bite of pancake concoction with some coffee.</p><p>“Huh?”</p><p>“Have you introduced anyone to the 8S?”</p><p>“Oh,” Sandor chuckled, “No. Perhaps this will come as a surprise, but I don’t go out much.”</p><p>Sansa feigned shock, causing Sandor to smile even as he rolled his eyes. She really was a smartass, and he really liked it.</p><p>He cleared his throat, not ready to apologize for his behavior on Wednesday, “How’s the book going?”</p><p>“I submitted my draft and am waiting on feedback, which gave me time to start an outline for the first book in my Hound series.”</p><p>Sandor could feel his eyes widen, “<em>Series</em>?”</p><p>She shrugged, “Of course, the first book has to be well received, but, yeah, I think it could be really good as a series. Maybe three or four books. Each a different case, and at each one the Hound is at a different stage of his journey.”</p><p>“Wow…” Sandor was speechless, and he couldn’t tell whether to feel flattered or embarrassed.</p><p>“So in the first book the reader will gather clues about not just about the case, but Sandor himself. Why he’s so grouchy, how he got his scars, does he have any family… that type of stuff.”</p><p>“Grouchy?”</p><p>“Mmhmm… and in the second book they’ll know more about him, personally, and will get to watch his character evolve a bit… come out of his shell, drop his armor…”</p><p>“How?”</p><p>Sansa shrugged, “Probably some woman will hire him for a case, or he’ll have to save some girl who’s been kidnapped, and they’ll have a fling…”</p><p>“A fling?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Sansa blushed, “But <em>just</em> a fling, because at the end of the day he’s still a loner… and he’s always afraid his past will come back to get him, so he’d never allow someone close to him for fear of endangering that person.”</p><p>“His past?” Sandor berated himself for contributing so little to the conversation, but he was captivated by her words. The idea of being the subject of her thoughts, even if only as a fictional version of himself, felt like the greatest honor in the world.</p><p>“Yeah… that will be revealed in the backstory toward the end of book one. At first, I was thinking it would be the <em>one</em> bad guy he never caught – the Moriarty to his Holmes… but I want it to be personal. I’m thinking it should be… well…”</p><p>“Who?”</p><p>Sansa shrugged, sipping her coffee in an obvious attempt to appear casual. With her lips still on the rim she mumbled, “Whoever gave him his your scars.”</p><p>Sandor sat back, surprised, “Oh.”</p><p>Sansa cleared her throat, “You don’t need to tell me how it happened. I will make something up, I have some ideas—”</p><p>Without hesitation the truth came out, “It was my brother.”</p><p>He didn’t look at her but could tell her eyes widened and her lips parted. He awaited the inevitable questions: Why did he do it? How old were you? How did he do it? What happened to him?</p><p>But none came.</p><p>“Oh,” she said softly, “I was thinking it would be some crook you had a run-in with during your early days as a young cop – before you became a detective. But a brother? I mean, if it doesn’t bother you, I think that could be interesting. You’d have been younger, then, when it happened, all the more reason for it to have such an impact on you.”</p><p>Sandor nodded, now at a complete loss for what to say, or how to say it.</p><p>Sansa pulled out the notebook she apparently carried everywhere and began jotting some things down as she rambled on, “It’s not enough for him to have hurt you. He’ll also be a criminal, one who always manages to get away. That can be the tie-in to your chosen career. You grew up watching your despicable older brother get away not just with hurting you but with hurting other people. Men, women… so it drew you to law enforcement. But it also made you cynical about law enforcement – maybe because as a kid you felt like they failed you. So you become a cop even though you despise cops. And maybe also you know some of them are corrupt, to varying degrees. Hence you were always a lone wolf. I mean, dog. Hound. By the way, do you think ‘bloodhound’ is better than just ‘hound’?”</p><p>He was staring at her but barely registering the last part of her rant. It felt like she got him so well, even though she thought she was just describing his character’s persona. He didn’t trust cops as a whole because Gregor got away with too much shit and, while working for the Lannisters, he realized how easily they could be bought. Maybe not small-town cops, suburban cops… but in cesspools like King’s Landing the line between righteousness and corruption was a blurry, moving target.</p><p>But unlike the Hound of Sansa’s creation, imperfect as he may be, Sandor didn’t choose the virtuous path. He didn’t try to make a difference. He stood clearly on the side of the immoral, and though he never savored it the way some men did, he didn’t lose much sleep over it, either. The men he had to rough up were crooks in their own right. The men and women he protected paid well, and otherwise ignored him, which was how he liked it. It wasn’t until his assignment changed, or rather his charge, that it became unbearable. It wasn’t until Cersei Lannister decided Sandor’s strength and skills would be best utilized in protecting her <em>precious </em>son, Joffrey, that his job became truly unlikeable. And even then, he carried on with it. He told himself if girls were stupid and loose enough to go home with Joffrey, or to get so drunk in his company that they lost all control over their faculties, then they got what they deserved. It was an excuse, but it worked for a time.</p><p>
  <em>Until her.</em>
</p><p>Though the excitement surrounding his friendship with Sansa nearly drowned out any other emotion he could have, Sandor did spend time wondering about why <em>she</em> had had such an effect on him. Worse, he wondered whether he should come clean now and tell her he used to work for Joffrey – that he was the one who carried her unconscious body home.</p><p>He looked at the half-eaten meal in front of him, and it was suddenly as unappetizing as a pile of dog shit. He pushed it away, perhaps more roughly than he should have, for Sansa looked up and eyed him curiously, “What’s the matter? Too soggy today? Or too salty?”</p><p>He shook his head, “Not hungry.”</p><p>He could tell she was replaying their conversation in her head, trying to find out what set him off. Part of him hoped her clever, mystery-solving mind, would figure out precisely what was troubling him so he wouldn’t have to speak the words aloud. A bigger part of him hoped she’d never find out, because he knew there was no going back from that. Sansa could probably forgive a lot of things, but she would never forgive that, and it would derail whatever was growing between them.</p><p>Sandor clenched his fists in his lap, hating her stupid book, hating Ray, hating the judge, hating the shitheads that he beat up to get in this spot to begin with, hating Sansa herself… all he wanted was to live his life in peace, build bikes, get drunk, go to sleep, rinse and repeat. He didn’t want to think about his past, didn’t want to contemplate why he drank so much, or why so many people had failed him in his life. Or why he had failed so many others.</p><p>He could feel it building and was powerless to stop it… That feeling that started as a tingling in his fingers and lips, coinciding with a frantic beating of his heart that he could feel in every blood vessel in his body. The whooshing in his ears. Every sound and sight that existed outside his body was muted or dimmed – all that existed was the rage snaking its way through every cell, burning along every inch of his skin. It stripped away the parts of him capable of compassion, humor, and lucid thought. It left behind only the parts of him capable of violence and anger. It was the hurricane swelling over the ocean, gaining power so it could cause maximum destruction once it made landfall. He had to get away before that happened, that was all he knew. He couldn’t be around people; couldn’t be in public.</p><p>Someone was calling his name as he walked toward the door. When he got outside the sun was harsh and blinding. He walked in the direction of his apartment, not knowing if he’d make it there without incident. He kept his head down, not letting himself see the looks of fear, disgust, or judgment on the faces he passed. He simply barreled ahead.</p><p>Until a hand clasped down on his shoulder. Instinct made him spin around and grab the offending hand with a sneer already on his lips. He heard passersby gasp, but the girl he grabbed only stared up at him, wide eyed, mouth opening and shutting.</p><p>“Sandor…” the mouth finally said.</p><p>“I’m not… a good fucking man,” he growled through gritted teeth. He didn’t know where the words came from.</p><p>He released her wrist with enough force to send her back a step before turning to continue his march home. He just needed to get home, have a drink, and calm the fuck down. His mouth watered at the notion of whiskey, or better yet, bourbon.</p><p>
  <em>Do I have any? Am I out?</em>
</p><p>Stopping at a store or bar in this state wouldn’t do, but he needed to calm this rage, to make the hurricane fizzle out over the ocean before it could do any irreparable damage.</p><p>“I know you’re not, but you’re not a bad man, either,” a woman shouted behind him. It stopped him in his tracks.</p><p>
  <em>Not a bad man…</em>
</p><p>As he stood on the sidewalk, wondering what the fuck that meant, he felt thin arms snake around his waist from behind. He would have pried them off, but they looked familiar – they were arms that belonged to someone he didn’t want to hurt. Then he realized a face was pressed between his shoulder blades as the arms tightened around him, now higher, just beneath his chest. It was almost painfully tight, but he welcomed the sensation. It was like a safety blanket. This woman was trying to ground him to the spot, he mused. As if someone with such tiny arms could keep him from floating up into the sky.</p><p>He looked down at the pale, slender hands locked around themselves. They looked so fragile, so delicate. He could break these hands just by squeezing them. But he didn’t want to break them, he wanted to hold them. He wanted to feel them on his body, on his face. He wanted to kiss them. He wanted to kiss the woman they belonged to.</p><p>With his adrenaline discharging, he felt suddenly weak. He was sweating, trembling… but it felt like a pleasant emptiness. Or perhaps a lightness. The rage was gone, vanished into thin air, though he knew not how or why. The residue left behind was airy and warm, like being in twilight sleep. He could use his brain now, but it was groggy. He could remember walking down the street. He could remember the woman calling his name – he could now remember the face that hadn’t registered to him before…</p><p>
  <em>Sansa. </em>
</p><p>“Sansa,” he croaked. He hadn’t been yelling, why was his throat so dry and sore?</p><p>“I’m here,” the little voice peeped against his back. It made him smile.</p><p>“I know,” he answered.</p><p>“I’m not letting go!” she spoke defiantly.</p><p>Sandor snorted. Had anyone ever stood up to him when he was in a fit of rage? No, he didn’t think so. Certainly not a woman as delicate as a little bird.</p><p>“I don’t want you to,” he answered after some time, “but can I turn around?”</p><p>Her head nodded against his back, and her arms loosened just enough to allow him to turn within her hold, then they tightened again.</p><p>He chuckled, “Wow, you really aren’t letting go.”</p><p>She shook her head.</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>She sighed against his chest, and it tickled skin and heart alike, “Because I know what you’ll do if I let go.”</p><p>
  <em>Drink. Or fight.</em>
</p><p>“You think you could stop me, you little baby bird?”</p><p>Without putting space between them she looked up, “Yes.” Her chin rested on his sternum, so close he could smell coffee and maple syrup each time she exhaled through her nose. Her eyes darted back and forth to look into each of his in turn. He didn’t know what she was looking for, but she must have found it, for she was moving her arms up to his neck and pulling him down until their lips met. Not the quick peck she’d given him one night, that could have almost been a kiss given to a brother, but a real, on-the-mouth kiss. She wasn’t deterred by his lack of response as she kissed his bottom lip, pulling it between her own and letting her tongue brush against it. It ignited something in him he didn’t know was there, and finally he opened his mouth and returned her kiss. He answered her fervor as one hand weaved into her hair and the other moved lower on her back. Her fingers tickled along his hairline before coming around to grasp each side of his neck.</p><p>They must have stood on the sidewalk kissing like that for several minutes, because Sandor counted five reactions they garnered, ranging from low whistles to ‘get a room’. Sandor smiled against his lips when a passing female voice sing-songed ‘get it girrrrl!’.</p><p>Where rage had stolen all his mental faculties, lust was now doing the same, and Sandor quickly realized it was keeping him from thinking of the very real problem that drove him out of the diner to begin with.</p><p>He pulled away from their kiss, holding Sansa’s cheek gently in his too-large hand.</p><p>“Sansa…” he began.</p><p>“Sandor,” she responded huskily.</p><p>He snorted and shook his head, “No, listen. I… believe me I fucking want this more than I want a fucking drink right now… but I can’t let this go on, and certainly can’t let it go any further, without being honest with you…”</p><p>Her brow knitted, “You have HIV?”</p><p>He laughed, “No, I’m clean.”</p><p>“You’re married?”</p><p>He lifted his head to the sky, “No, who the fuck would marry me?”</p><p>She smacked his arm and he was enough of a gentleman to pretend it hurt.</p><p>“You’re a registered sex offender?”</p><p>Sandor huffed to let her know he wouldn’t even dignify that with a response.</p><p>Her eyes narrowed, “You have ED?”</p><p>He glanced down to his groin, and her eyes followed, then widened as a blush bloomed on her cheeks.</p><p>She looked back up to his eyes, “Then I think we can get past it.”</p><p>He shook his head, wanting to believe her, but knowing the odds were against her being right.</p><p>She took a step back and crossed her arms. He recognized it not as rudeness, but as self-preservation.</p><p>Sandor let out a loud exhale, “I live two blocks away. I don’t want to do this here,” he flicked his hand at the general vicinity around them.</p><p>Sansa looked at him skeptically, and he realized after his earlier behavior she was afraid to be alone with him. He shook his head, “Sorry that was stupid to ask…”</p><p>“Fine.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Fine; lead the way.”</p><p>“Aren’t you worried about… being alone with me in my apartment?”</p><p>“Yes, but not really. And I can’t stand cliffhangers.”</p><p>“Haven’t you ever heard that curiosity killed the cat?”</p><p>Sansa lifted her brows as she nodded, “Yep, and someday it’s probably gonna kill me, but not today.”</p><p>He could only shake his head at her ill-advised bravery. He took her hand gently, “Come on.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. I’d never hurt you</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Immediately follows events of Ch 5</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sandor paced his apartment, all his earlier courage having evaporated the moment he turned the key in his lock. Sansa leaned against the back of his sofa looking nervous. No doubt his frenetic pacing had her mind conjuring all kinds of horrible things he might be about to confess.</p><p>
  <em>Where to start?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I used to work for the Baratheon/Lannister crime family. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I was the one who brought you back to your apartment after Joffrey drugged and raped you.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And I had done the same thing before, with other girls.</em>
</p><p>He rubbed his brow, seriously second-guessing his decision that honesty was the best policy.</p><p>“Sandor, can you just say what you want to say?” she plead, tone confident but voice thin.</p><p>“Yeah,” he nodded, “Right. Just… before I say it, I want you to promise you’ll listen to the whole story. Once I’m done, I won’t stop you from leaving, and if you never want to see me again you won’t have to… even our next two meetings, I’ll make an excuse – ask Ray if he can see me one-on-one, or—”</p><p>“Sandor, you’re worrying me…”</p><p>“I know,” he clasped her hands, “I’m sorry. I’m fucking scared and… just tell me you know that I won’t hurt you. I’d <em>never</em> hurt you.”</p><p>She eyed him for long moments before her eyes softened ever so slightly, “You won’t hurt me.”</p><p>He breathed a sigh of relief. She would hate him soon; she would feel hurt and angry, no doubt. But it would kill him if he had to look in her eyes and see fear.</p><p>He nodded, “Good. Right…” he looked around the living room, hoping he’d find the answer of how to tell her about his past, and their connection.</p><p>“I thought you looked familiar during one of our first meetings…”</p><p>She shifted on her feet, “Okay…”</p><p>“Fuck,” Sandor mumbled before inspiration struck him. He pulled his t-shirt over his head and stood before her.</p><p>He waited for her to pick up on his hint, but her eyes just scanned his torso from top to bottom and side to side, “Okay…” she nodded to the corner of his room, “That weight set isn’t just for decoration.”</p><p>He rolled his eyes, “Not that.”</p><p>“Um, you have scars… is this about your childhood? Your brother?”</p><p>He shook his head, “Not the scars.”</p><p>Her eyes landed on his left pectoral, “You have a tattoo. Of a skull… made of,” she leaned closer, “of flowers.”</p><p>He nodded, “Dead flowers.”</p><p>
  
</p><p>Her eyes narrowed but she said no more.</p><p>“I told you I used to run with some seedy people… I didn’t just run with them, I worked for them. For years. I was what you’d call their muscle… then I became a bodyguard for some of them. It gave me no joy, but clearly it didn’t repulse me enough to stop working for them.”</p><p>She stared at him, unblinking.</p><p>He sighed, “I worked for the Lannisters.”</p><p>She stood up straight, no longer leaning on the couch, as if getting ready to bolt.</p><p>“I was Joffrey’s bodyguard when… during the time you had your encounter with him,” he closed his eyes, resigned to receive her judgment and perhaps his punishment.</p><p>When the silence became unbearable, he opened his eyes and found hers filled with unshed tears. If he owned a sword, he would fall on it.</p><p>“You…” she whispered, her eyes fixed on his throat, “you were there when he…”</p><p>“No!” he shouted, then collected himself, “He called me afterwards to take you home. I didn’t know your name. I just took you home and laid you in bed.”</p><p>She shook her head, “I don’t understand… you told Ray… you got in that fight because some guys were hassling some girls. But you knew what Joffrey did and you… did nothing?” her voice sounded pleading at the end, desperately hoping Sandor would prove her wrong.</p><p>He shook his head, “After you… I stopped working for them. It took some time, they’re not the type of people you just say, “I quit” to, but I did… quit.”</p><p>She wiped a tear from her right eye as if its presence was an annoyance, “When I told you what happened to me… what Joffrey did…”</p><p>He closed his eyes again, “I put two and two together.”</p><p>She turned away, staring blankly out the window. Tears were streaming down both cheeks now.</p><p>“Why?” she asked, though it sounded like a challenge.</p><p>He shook his head, “They owned most of the cops. If I had turned on them, I’d be dead. If I had taken you to the police, we might both be dead. I’d have been put down for my disloyalty, you’d have been threatened, roughed up, or worse.”</p><p>“I meant why did you work for them in the first place?”</p><p>“I don’t fucking know,” Sandor crossed his arms over his chest. He’d expected her to run out of his apartment, not to ask fucking questions.</p><p>“Guess,” she said curtly.</p><p>“I left home after my dad died. He wasn’t much protection from Gregor, my brother, but he was better than nothing I suppose. I didn’t finish high school, much less any kind of college. Wasn’t even old enough to legally work. I fell in with other people like me, people who stole to eat, some who stole just because they wanted to. I was good muscle; people were afraid of me, I used it to my advantage. Made a name for myself. The Lannisters always appreciated people who could intimidate without using force – helped them keep their hands clean. It was good money. I was young and dumb, didn’t bother thinking about consequences. Once I was in, I was in. And when you’re in, it’s hard to get out.”</p><p>“You were vulnerable,” she whispered.</p><p>Sandor snorted, “What part of me looks vulnerable to you?”</p><p>She shook her head, “You were just a kid when you got into that life. You did what you had to do to survive.”</p><p>“It’s no excuse. I could have got in the system, gone to a group home, or a foster home. Finished school, gotten a job as a fucking cashier or janitor or whatever the fuck thousands of other kids in my situation do. I could have scraped by. I could have gone to night school… made better of my situation.”</p><p>“So why didn’t you?”</p><p>Sandor pointed to his scars and long minutes passed in silence, until a cool hand cupped his cheek. He jerked from the contact, but Sansa didn’t relent. She met his eyes and held them, “School must have been rough for you. Kids can be so cruel. And going to job interviews… some people would judge you for your scars, your height… You were afraid of that.”</p><p>Sandor nodded, once more awed at how well she seemed to be able to see right through him. In a few short weeks of knowing each other, she had him all figured out. And she hadn’t run away screaming. It made no sense.</p><p>“Why are you still here?” he growled.</p><p>“Do you want me to go?” she whispered.</p><p>“If you were smart, you would. And I know you’re not dumb.”</p><p>She dropped her hand, “You said you needed to be honest with me about this if we’re to continue down the road we’re on,” her cheeks flushed, “but did you really tell me so you would drive me away?”</p><p>He blinked at her, stunned that, for once, he wasn’t trying to drive someone away. Few had tried to get close – Selmy, a woman or two, now Ray… and he pushed them all away. He kept them at arm’s length so they’d never see how fucked up he was.</p><p>His voice broke when he spoke, “Do you think you can forgive me?”</p><p>She didn’t answer him directly, instead staring at his chest, which he realized with no small amount of shame was still naked. He bent down to pick up his shirt, but she stilled him.</p><p>“Why did you show me your tattoo?”</p><p>He let out a sigh, “That night… I saw the tattoo on your shoulder. You had on a blue dress, but your shoulder was exposed. A dead flower... I stared at it, wondering what it meant, and yet knowing exactly what it meant. It meant you were sad… that you felt broken, or not whole. That whatever image you put out there – fun, cute, party girl… it didn’t reflect how you felt about yourself. I knew it, because I felt that way too. I was the Hound… the vicious but obedient dog. Everyone who looked at me saw a brute, someone who lived for violence, someone who had no compassion, but that isn't how I felt. I knew it for a long time, but I never admitted it to myself until I saw your tattoo. Months later, when I was finally free of the Lannisters, I got this done,” Sandor pointed at his chest, “I told myself it represented the death of the old me, but I think now I got it…” he exhaled and lowered himself onto the sofa, “I got it for you. The girl whose name I didn’t even know, but who changed my life…  But breaking away from them didn’t stop me from feeling dead inside. Building bikes is a good distraction, but at the end of the day I still feel dead inside. I’m still angry at the world, angry at myself, and yet haven’t had the energy to do anything about it… honestly, I haven’t felt alive in years, until…” he shook his head, “until the first night at the diner. I should have told you then, when I realized how we had met before… but I was afraid.”</p><p>Sandor looked up, only now realizing Sansa had moved to stand in front of him. He snorted bitterly, “I suppose this support group is making me a chatterbox, too. Don’t think I’ve talked so much in… well, <em>ever.</em>”</p><p>Sansa was only staring down at him, and now he was certain he’d said too much. He practically told her his life was a dim wasteland until he met her. Surely, she didn’t share his feelings. But it was the truth, and we wouldn’t try to take it back now.</p><p>“I’ve made some bad choices myself,” her voice pulled him from his musings, and he looked up to find her eyes were blank. “I did things that make me feel literally sick with shame. I did them when I was young, and until you just told me your story, it never occurred to me that… well, that maybe it wasn’t all my fault. Maybe I went through too much, at too young an age, to be in the position to make good choices.”</p><p>She plopped down next to him with a sigh, “Not a day goes by that I don’t think about what I’ve done, and that makes me want a drink in the worst fucking way. Because it’s so much easier to not care. But I realized something after that first night at the diner… when I’m with you, I don’t want to drink so much.”</p><p>Sandor took a chance and reached for her hand, “When I’m with you, I don’t want to drink so much, either.”</p><p>When he looked up her eyes were closed but she was smiling faintly. Though she couldn’t see him, he smiled back.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. We’re a bunch of party animals</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sandor found himself grinning like a fool as he made his way to the church for their second-to-last meeting. His mind wandered back to Sunday evening...</p><p>They had both been exhausted by their respective confessions and realizations, and unknowingly fell asleep on Sandor’s sofa. He awoke confused, finding Sansa nuzzled up against him. As his brain realized the sky was dim, he thought they’d slept right through the whole night; a glance at the oven clock, which told him it was 6:56, made him sit up abruptly, waking Sansa in the process.</p><p>“Shit, little bird, it’s almost seven, I need to get ready for work.”</p><p>She looked equally startled then reached for her phone, chuckling, “It’s almost seven, indeed… on Sunday night.”</p><p>Sandor laughed at himself, dragging a hand down his face, “We’re a bunch of party animals, aren’t we?”</p><p>She smiled back at him, “Well, we do eat dinner at a diner at three o’clock in the afternoon…”</p><p>Sandor sat back down next to her, relaxing with the knowledge he had almost twelve hours before he needed to wake up for good and head to work, “Aye, but we technically are eating breakfast food… does that count as dinner?”</p><p>Sansa shrugged, “I eat breakfast for dinner on a regular basis, so yes, it counts.”</p><p>Sandor considered how to broach the subject of her staying longer – he could offer to make her dinner (real dinner), or see if she wanted to watch a movie, or… well that was pretty much it, idea-wise – when she leaned against him again, burying her face into his scarred neck.</p><p>She yawned, “Ordinarily I’m quite cranky to anyone who wakes me up prematurely, but I do love waking up to realize the day doesn’t need to start yet… of course, normally that happens at four o’clock in the morning, not seven in the evening, but either way, you’re forgiven.”</p><p>Sandor snorted, “How merciful of you.”</p><p>Sansa swatted his chest, “Now enough talking, I was having a good nap.”</p><p>She seemed content to go back to sleep there on his couch, using him as a pillow, and while he was more than willing to be her teddy bear, he knew he’d find no peace until he sorted some things out.</p><p>“Little bird…”</p><p>“Why are you calling me that?”</p><p>He laughed to himself, “I dunno. You seem so tiny and delicate like a pretty little bird. And you once told me people look at you and see a baby bird fallen out of its nest… and you’re always talking, chirping like a bird… does it bother you?”</p><p>She shook her head against his shoulder.</p><p>“Anyway, I just… well I threw a lot at you before, and I want to make sure… well I’ve been thinking the past couple weeks it would be nice to still see you after our meetings are done. If I’ve ruined that though, I understand, but just tell me, okay?”</p><p>She sighed loudly, her warm breath tickling him and making him aware that he never did put his shirt back on.</p><p>“Sandor… is all that behind you?” she asked as she pulled back to meet his eyes.</p><p>He swallowed and nodded but then thought that wasn’t quite the truth, “I’m not fucking perfect, Sansa. Far from it. I lose my temper, I get in these rages sometimes, like I did earlier today. But if you mean the work I did, the people I associated with – yes, it’s behind me, and it’ll stay that way.”</p><p>She picked at the hem of her shorts, “And when you get in one of those… <em>rages…</em> have you ever hurt someone… someone who didn’t deserve it, I mean?”</p><p>He sat forward, clasping her hands, “Never, Sansa. I’ve never laid hands on a woman if that’s what you’re asking. I know I grabbed your wrist, but…” he turned away, feeling his cheeks heat.</p><p>“I’m not talking about that. I came up behind you and grabbed your shoulder. You didn’t hurt me, though I’m sure you could have, with little effort… I mean, have you ever hit someone, like a girlfriend?”</p><p>Sandor sat back with a snort, “This might not be the reassurance you’re looking for, but I haven’t had many girlfriends. More like one-night stands. But I’ve been around plenty of women…” he chuckled to himself, “if I could resist the urge to smack Cersei Lannister across her smug mouth, then I imagine a woman would have to be pointing a gun at me before I struck her.”</p><p>Sansa nodded but remained silent, giving Sandor a chance to replay her question, “Why did you ask if I’ve hit a girlfriend? When I asked about continuing to see you, I meant as friends, or however you’d have me. I know you kissed me before, but…” <em>But what?</em></p><p>Now it was Sansa’s turn to blush, “I dunno… I think... I think I like you. But I’m smart enough to know that that might not be a good idea. Not because of your past, but because…” she trailed off, staring again at her lap.</p><p>“Because what?”</p><p>She lifted her eyes and he could tell she was summoning courage to say what was on her mind, “Because we’re both on our best behavior right now – <em>court ordered</em>,” she rolled her eyes, “I’ve just been going through this program so I don’t have to lose my license… you’ve been going through it to avoid jail time. It hasn’t even occurred to me that when this is over, I will stop drinking for good. And, I know Ray would call bullshit, but I don’t think I have a problem, really. I mean, I know I do… I know I’m self-medicating. But I’m a happy drunk… most of the time. Or at least, I don’t do anything reckless when I drink. I don’t start fights, or anything. I know driving drunk was a mistake, I had been on the way back from my editor’s place in Maidenpool and I… anyway, it doesn’t matter. I just don’t know that I’d be good for you, because it seems to me that you have good reason not to drink. That you get violent when you drink…”</p><p>Sandor turned away from her, feeling inexplicably ashamed, “Aye, not always, but sometimes. I won’t lie, I’ve wanted a drink about a thousand times since I got arrested, and I didn’t think there was anything wrong with that. But it occurred to me recently that that’s all my life was. Working, drinking, and sleeping. I don’t know what I want, but I know I don’t want to go back to that.”</p><p>He turned to face her again, and this time he had to summon his courage, “I know it’s none of my business, but it sounds like you drank just to be able to function. To be able to work… do you really think you should go back to that?”</p><p>She shook her head as tears welled in her eyes, “I don’t think I should, but I think I <em>will</em>…”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“Sometimes shit just gets to be too much. I remember things I wish I could forget. I get sad, I get angry… and the only thing I can do is drink until I forget… or stop caring.”</p><p>Sandor felt a pang of guilt, “You remember your family? Or Joffrey?”</p><p>Sansa chuckled, but there was no joy behind it, “I wasn’t lying when I said the incident with Joffrey didn’t even crack my top five… maybe because I don’t remember it. It was bad at first but only because I knew he lived in the city… I was afraid, but after he died, I haven’t even really thought about it, until I talked to you about it. Even then I was angrier about that cop than I was at Joffrey, silly as that sounds.”</p><p>Sandor nodded, “So your family then? The accident?”</p><p>“Sometimes,” she wiped her eyes and stood, “I really don’t want to talk about it. I just mentioned it because I know sooner or later, I’m going to fall off the wagon. And if you’ve strapped yourself to me on that wagon, you’ll fall, too.”</p><p>Sandor chuckled, “Aye, and if you strap yourself to me on the wagon, and <em>I </em>fall off, you’re <em>definitely</em> coming over with me.”</p><p>Sansa smiled and nodded, “You get my point?”</p><p>Sandor didn’t want to admit it, but he did. He’d spent surprisingly little time in the past months pondering his addiction. In fact, most days, he didn’t even consider it an addiction. But now he could look back objectively and see that drinking himself to a stupor on a Monday night wasn’t healthy.</p><p>Finally he nodded, “Aye, I get it.”                                                                               </p><p>Sansa sat back down next to him, taking his large hands in her small ones, “I’m not saying I don’t want to see you or talk to you after the meetings are done, but I think we should take things slow and see how we both adjust to non-court mandated sober living, before we do anything that will be hard to undo.”</p><p>Her words were painful to hear but he couldn’t deny their merit. Because as much as he liked to consider himself a lone dog, someone who didn’t depend on anyone but himself, he knew if he let himself fall for Sansa Stark, there would be no turning back… he’d never be able to give her up.</p><p>She chewed her lip, “So if you’re okay with being friends… with continuing our Sunday tradition… then I’d like that.”</p><p>
  <em>There’s no being just your friend, girl.</em>
</p><p>Sandor smiled, “Wouldn’t be the same eating the 8S without you… speaking of, I didn’t eat much of mine today. Wanna order a pizza and watch a movie, or something? I mean, if friends would do that…”</p><p>Her smile lit up his living room, “Friends would definitely do that, and I’m starving.”</p><p>They ended up watching two movies and splitting an entire pepperoni pizza. It was after midnight when the end credits rolled on the second flick, and Sandor stood up, ready to walk Sansa home if she’d allow him, when he looked over to notice her sleeping, this time using an actual pillow. He pulled a blanket off the back of the couch to cover her legs, sat back down, and closed his eyes.</p><p>On Monday morning they parted ways, her heading one direction to go to her apartment, him heading the other to go to the shop. As he greeted Selmy his phone chirped in his pocket, and he pulled it out to find a text from Sansa.</p><p>
  <strong>Sansa: See you Wednesday, BUDDY!</strong>
</p><p>…</p><p>He was still grinning as he skipped up the church steps that Wednesday, and Ray immediately noticed Sandor’s unusual mood and lifted an eyebrow in surprise but not judgment. Sansa was already there, also seemingly in a good mood.</p><p>Halfway through their meeting, Ray sat back and smiled, “I must say, this smaller group session was a good idea, if I do say so myself. I think you both have come a long way.”</p><p>Sandor smiled despite himself, and Sansa beamed unabashedly. But Ray was too observant not to pick up on the parallel changes in his two <em>patients,</em> as Sandor sometimes thought of himself.</p><p>Ray’s tone became more serious, “I want to talk about relationships… in my experience, when people fall into their old habits, it’s often because they spend time with people who actively engage in said habits. The friendships we form when we’re drinking are often not healthy for us when we’re sober. It doesn’t mean those friends aren’t good people, and that there can’t be occasional contact, but sometimes we think we’re ready to walk into a bar and drink club soda while the guys drink beers, and we find out too late that we’re not. It’s important to be honest with our old acquaintances – and new ones – let them know we’re sober and trying to stay that way. Let them know we’re not ready to be around them while they’re drinking.”</p><p>“But, Ray, how will we know when we are ready?” Sansa peeped.</p><p>Ray shrugged, “It’s different for everyone. It may be that someday you’ll be able to walk past a liquor store without being tempted to go in. Or when you can watch a movie in which the characters are drinking, without being tempted to do the same.”</p><p>Sansa nodded, then spoke in a self-mocking tone, “Or be able to buy a pack of smokes without salivating over the bottles on the shelf behind the cashier.”</p><p>Sandor snorted, “Or not being tempted to buy the brown paper bag off the bum on the subway.”</p><p>Sansa laughed, “Or not having to quickly change the channel when a beer commercial comes on.”</p><p>Sandor laughed even louder, remembering that he had mentioned something about that to Sansa the first time they spoke on the phone.</p><p>Ray allowed their banter for a while before growing serious again, “Even more important than what and who we <em>avoid</em> is who we do choose to associate with. It’s important to have a support structure, people who understand what we’re going through. You’ve both heard the term ‘enabler’ I’m sure. You might meet people – or you may already know people – who seem supportive, but really only end up supporting our worst impulses. This is very different from people who support us, but only in maintaining our ultimate goal of sobriety. It may seem counter-intuitive, but a friend who sticks with you through the ups and downs may be less of a friend than the one who walks away when they see you spiraling, the person who forces you to recognize your problems, and who doesn’t fall for your bullshit.”</p><p>Ray took a deep breath, “I’d like you both to think about something over the next week. I know neither of you wanted to be here, but if either of you thinks you’ve found some benefit in this process, I’d encourage you to continue in some format. One on one therapy can be extremely effective. Attending group meetings as well. Don’t think of it as a commitment. Attend a meeting when you feel like you need it. Every week, every other week, once a month… whatever is right for you. Think about therapy, it can’t hurt to try it. Worst case, you waste an hour of your life.”</p><p>Ray looked to both of them then, pinning them with a glare that brooked no argument, “But whatever you decide, find someone you can confide in. A friend, a priest, a counselor… I told you both my story. It took me too many years to learn to open up. But only through opening up did I learn how to forgive and be forgiven. If you remember nothing else I’ve told you, remember that.”</p><p>With a slap to his knees Ray stood, “Next week is our last meeting. I want you both to come with questions. Anything you want some advice on. And, you know I won’t force you, but I’d like you both to consider sharing something you haven’t shared before. Perhaps something that weighs on you. Or maybe something small. I trust you to decide what you’re ready for.”</p><p>They said their goodbyes to Ray and walked in amiable silence until Sandor reached his building. As Sansa continued past, she turned and smiled, “See you Sunday, buddy!”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Did you make Ken and Barbie kiss?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“No you fucking didn’t!” Sandor barked.</p><p>“I did too!” Sansa chirped.</p><p>“Nuh-uh, no way. You don’t have it in you girl.”</p><p>“I didn’t do it on purpose!”</p><p>“Even so, I don’t believe it.”</p><p>Sansa crossed her arms, “You know, I’ve felt guilty about it my whole life, now you’re making me feel like I need to do it again to some unsuspecting person jut to prove I’m capable.”</p><p>“Just don’t do it when I’m around,” Sandor threw up his arms, “I don’t need to have any more run-ins with the law.”</p><p>“I’m going to track him down online and get him to tell you.”</p><p>“Mmhmm…”</p><p>“I mean it!”</p><p>Sandor lifted his brow, “Whatever you say.”</p><p>They were strolling through the central park of King’s Landing late on Sunday afternoon. Their bellies were full of pancakes and coffee, and it was a good day. Sansa had just confessed to throwing a Barbie doll at her brother’s friend when she was ten and he was thirteen. The boy – Theon – had been teasing her for being too old to play with dolls. Then he asked if she ever made Ken and Barbie kiss. In a fit of outrage, Sansa flung the doll, hardly trying to aim, but ended up hitting him just right to crack his front tooth.</p><p>Sansa threw her arms out, palms up, “My sister did things like that all the time and barely got a reprimand. I did it <em>once</em> and my parents grounded me for a week and made me write an apology to him. That was the worst part.”</p><p>“So… did you?”</p><p>“Yes! I even put unicorn stickers on it that he was <em>entirely</em> unworthy of.”</p><p>“No; did you make Ken and Barbie kiss?” Sandor grinned.</p><p>Sansa swatted his arm with more zing than she normally used, “No, I was a proper little lady.”</p><p>“Who uses Barbie dolls as deadly weapons.”</p><p>“Oh, <em>now</em> you believe me?”</p><p>Sandor nodded, “Actually I can kind of picture it. Little Sansa with angry red cheeks to match your fiery hair… losing your temper… you strike me as one of those nice girls who rarely gets angry but when she does – <em>watch out</em>!”</p><p>Sansa nodded once, “I’ll take that as a compliment… and just for the record, I—”</p><p>“Sansa!” a man’s voice shouted from behind them on the trail. In tandem they spun around to face him. He was a slight man, well-dressed, with a pointed goatee and black hair gone gray at the temples.</p><p>“Uh,” Sansa exhaled, and when Sandor looked at her, he saw her face had gone ashen.</p><p>“Sansa!” the man repeated, before approaching the pair and pulling Sansa into a hug.</p><p>When he pulled away, he was smiling, though Sandor found it lacked warmth. Sansa seemed to struggle to find a greeting when she finally whispered, “Uncle Petyr…”</p><p>The man’s eyes flicked to Sandor and he extended his hand, “I’m Sansa’s uncle, Petyr Baelish.”</p><p>Sandor gripped his hand more tightly than was necessary while Sansa shook her head as if to clear her brain, “Sorry… Petyr, this is Sandor… Sandor, Petyr.”</p><p>After eying Sandor from top to bottom Petyr turned back to Sansa, “Sorry for interrupting your date, I saw your red hair and I thought it might be you. I’ve been trying to get ahold of you.”</p><p>Sansa shook her head again, “This isn’t a date, Sandor is my friend and… anyway, what did you need to see me about?”</p><p>Petyr seemed pleased by her response. Though it wasn’t a date, Sandor thought it might be better if she hadn’t corrected him. She seemed uncomfortable in the man’s presence and perhaps if he thought it was a date he would leave sooner.</p><p>“I’d rather not tell you here. Is there somewhere we can speak privately?” he flashed another fake smile in Sandor’s direction.</p><p>Sansa looked small in that moment, and her voice trembled even as she tried to stand her ground, “Can you at least tell me what it’s about?”</p><p>Petyr shook his head, frowning, “Well, I’d rather not deliver this upsetting news here in public, but if you insist… it’s your Aunt Lysa, Sansa… she’s… well, she’s passed away.”</p><p>Sansa blanched at his words but didn’t seem overly upset, “I… I’m sorry to hear that. I… when is the funeral?”</p><p>Petyr raised his eyebrows, “The funeral was three months ago. I’ve been trying to track you down since she passed. Longer, actually…”</p><p>“I don’t understand… why do you…” Sansa trailed off, her voice faltering.</p><p>“You’re her only blood relative, Sansa. Plus of course your sister, but I haven’t been able to locate her, either.”</p><p>Sansa shook her head, “I don’t know where Arya is.”</p><p>Petyr nodded, “I thought not, but nonetheless, there is a matter of inheritance.”</p><p>“Inheritance? Why would Aunt Lysa leave anything to me?” Sansa crossed her arms defensively.</p><p>“It’s a bit complicated, but there is a not inconsequential sum set aside for both you and Arya. In light of Arya’s continued absence, I’d ask you to receive both funds. You can set up a trust that will be there for Arya should she ever resurface.”</p><p>Sansa shook her head, “Thank you, but I don’t want any of Aunt Lysa’s money. I will hold onto Arya’s share, since that’s not my decision to make, but that’s all.”</p><p>Petyr bowed his head, “Very well. You don’t have to decide now. I was hoping we could meet to discuss the details. I can fill you in on everything, that way when you sit down in front of the lawyers you will have an idea what it all means.”</p><p>Sansa exhaled loudly but nodded, “Fine… I’m free tomorrow.”</p><p>“Excellent, I’ll make a dinner reservation—”</p><p>“Lunch would be better,” Sansa insisted.</p><p>Petyr winced but nodded, “Fine, lunch… eh, do you know Dany’s by the pier?”</p><p>Sansa nodded, “I’ll be there at 12:30.”</p><p>“I can pick you up—” Petyr offered.</p><p>“No! I… I’ll be coming from another meeting. I’ll meet you there,” her voice broke and Sandor noticed her neck was bright red.</p><p>Petyr looked about to protest but thought better of it. With a polite nod to Sandor he bid Sansa good evening and turned around, heading back the way he’d come.</p><p>Sandor watched him walk away, unnerved by the man’s confident gait, “That the uncle and aunt you lived with after your family’s accident?”</p><p>When his question went unanswered, he turned to face Sansa, but she had turned away and was sobbing into her hands.</p><p>“Little bird?”</p><p>She waved him away, “I’m sorry… I need to go…”</p><p>She walked away so fast it was almost a jog, and though Sandor called out to her, she didn’t look back.</p><p>-------------------------------------------</p><p>Wednesday 7:35 PM</p><p>Sandor stared at the white face of the large, utilitarian wall clock, the type that was used in schools, hospitals, and jails. And churches, apparently. As silence had descended between him and Ray, each tick of the second hand seemed tauntingly loud.</p><p>Ray shifted in his seat. Certainly, Sansa being five minutes late to their meeting shouldn’t be cause for alarm, but the man looked uneasy. Perhaps he was picking up on Sandor’s concern, even though he tried to hide it behind his usual mask of indifference.</p><p>
  <em>She’s never been late to a meeting. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>And this is our last meeting.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And the last time I saw her, she was practically running away in tears after an awkward reunion with her uncle.</em>
</p><p>Ray cleared his throat, “We’ll give her five more minutes, then get started.”</p><p>Sandor nodded, though the idea of speaking to Ray one on one was nearly as concerning as wondering where Sansa might be, and what state she was in.</p><p>Sandor pulled his phone out of his pocket, trying to look casual.</p><p>
  <strong>Me: Where are you?</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Me: Everything OK?</strong>
</p><p>He held the phone, hoping to feel it vibrate any second now with a reply that she was running late, had gotten tied up with something work-related, was lost in the zone, heads down in her draft. Yet every one of his instincts – which he’d learned to trust above anything else – told him such was not the case.</p><p>Before her uncle even mentioned her aunt’s passing, Sansa looked wary of the man. She looked like she’d seen a ghost – a ghost from her past she did <em>not</em> want to be reunited with.</p><p>Another three minutes had ticked by. Sandor once again tried to look and sound indifferent as he glanced at Ray, “If she doesn’t show up…?”</p><p>Ray shrugged, “She needs to get in contact with me. People get sick, get stuck at work… it happens. But she needs to complete the last meeting by the end of the week unless she has a doctor’s excuse.”</p><p>Sandor nodded.</p><p>Ray sat forward, seemingly mulling over his words, “Have you tried texting her?”</p><p>He wanted to lie, still wasn’t sure what Ray would think of their relationship, or friendship, or whatever it was, but he knew by now Ray could sniff out lies as well as anyone. So he nodded, “Aye. I just text her. No response yet.”</p><p>Ray nodded, looked to the clock, then clapped his hands together, “Well, let’s begin. This is your last required meeting. You’ve been sober what, ten weeks? Do you feel proud?”</p><p>Sandor shrugged, “I suppose I should feel proud.”</p><p>“But you don’t.”</p><p>“Not really, doesn’t seem like much of an accomplishment.”</p><p>Ray nodded thoughtfully, “I’m curious, have you had any altercations since you stopped drinking?”</p><p>Sandor growled, “I didn’t have many altercations <em>before</em> I stopped drinking. At least not in several years.”</p><p>“But you’d come close?”</p><p>Sandor exhaled loudly, “Aye.”</p><p>“And have you come close since you’ve been sober?”</p><p>Sandor shifted, “Once… not really… I mean, I didn’t direct my aggression toward anyone.”</p><p>“But you felt aggressive?”</p><p>“Aye.” <em>That’s an understatement.</em></p><p>“And what stopped you from expressing your aggression?”</p><p>
  <em>Sansa’s arms wrapped around me.</em>
</p><p>Sandor crossed his outstretched legs, “I realized my anger wasn’t for anyone around me.”</p><p>“Who was it for?”</p><p>Sandor lifted his eyes to hold Ray’s gaze. Why was this so hard to say?</p><p>“It was for myself,” he eventually mumbled.</p><p>Ray nodded, “For something you’d done?”</p><p>“Aye, but a long time ago.”</p><p>“Something that bothers you often?”</p><p>Sandor sighed and nodded.</p><p>“And have you ever spoken to anyone about it?”</p><p>Sandor snorted, “No.” <em>Not until Sansa.</em></p><p>“Why not?”</p><p>“Not anything I’m proud to talk about.”</p><p>Ray smiled knowingly, “Of course it’s not.”</p><p>The silence sank like fog, and Sandor knew what Ray was waiting for.</p><p>“Look, I make no excuses. I wasn’t the worst fucker out there, but I wasn’t far from it, either. I don’t need lectures because it’s behind me already and has been for years.”</p><p>“I don’t plan on lecturing you. Have I ever?”</p><p>Sandor rolled his eyes. No, Ray didn’t lecture, per se. But he got that <em>look</em> in his eyes.</p><p>“Fine, what the fuck do I care what you think?” Sandor sat forward, trying to make this look like a voluntary admission when it felt anything but, “I dropped out of school ‘cause life was fucked up. And I don’t mean mommy and daddy getting a divorce fucked up, or some girl breaking my heart fucked up, I mean <em>fucked up.</em> I made money however I could, most of it not legal. Made a name for myself, caught the eye of people who appreciated such a <em>skillset</em>, and served them for years. Roughed up guys that weren’t paying up, that kind of shit. You want the truth? I don’t feel guilt over that. They were scum just like I was, and I didn’t do anything to them they hadn’t probably done to other guys.”</p><p>“But you feel guilt over other things you had to do?”</p><p>Sandor nodded, “My bosses, they realized anyone could break knuckles, hold a pistol in some deadbeat’s mouth. I guess they thought my <em>talents</em> weren’t being properly utilized. I graduated to more of a bodyguard type role. The kind who has to have eyes and ears open; who has to be able to smell trouble coming before it gets there. I was good at that; it was second nature. I grew up that way. I may have looked like the predator, but I never stopped thinking like the prey.”</p><p>“Your brother?” Ray asked casually.</p><p>Sandor felt his chest clench and his stomach churn as it did every time Gregor was mentioned, “Aye, my big brother.”</p><p>“You said he was abusive.”</p><p>Sandor snorted, “He was a <em>sadist</em>. He found reasons to torment me. When there were none, he created them. Then eventually, he stopped caring to have a reason to show for his violence. It came without warning, at least none that anyone else could detect…”</p><p>“But you could?”</p><p>Sandor nodded, “Like a change in the wind. Subtle. Like his eyes turning a shade darker. The vein in his forehead showing. His back straightening… If I got lucky, I could sneak out before he even realized what he was gearing up for. I’d sleep in the woods or spend the night wandering around town aimlessly. A shitty night’s sleep, or waking up with poison ivy, it was a small price to pay.”</p><p>“You started drinking young. Was it to dull the pain of the abuse?”</p><p>Sandor chuckled humorlessly, “You could blame my drinking on my brother… quite directly, as a matter of fact. My brother had been out drinking with his friends, no doubt booze they stole from one of their parents, or maybe they robbed a liquor store, or simply intimidated a clerk into selling it to them. My brother came home drunk and hell bent on making a man out of me, as he put it. I can’t even tell you how much rum he made me drink… still can’t stand the smell of it… I only know I spent the night puking, spent the whole next day sweating through the worst headache of my life… but the day after that I realized that, the whole time I was drunk, I hadn’t been afraid of him. And for whatever reason, he’d left me alone. Perhaps he knew he couldn’t make me any more miserable than a first-time hangover.”</p><p>“So you connected the drinking to the feeling of being unafraid, and of your brother leaving you alone.”</p><p>Sandor looked to Ray, feeling almost dumbfounded. The wise fucker was right, and Sandor never realized it. He didn’t need to answer or even nod for Ray to realize he was onto something.</p><p>Ray leaned back, “So I see now how you’d be good at sniffing out trouble, as you say. And certainly tough enough to give trouble a taste of its own medicine when it managed to sneak through…”</p><p>“Aye,” Sandor agreed, glad to be off the subject of Gregor, “I hated serving those cunts, but I slept fine at night.”</p><p>“Until?”</p><p>Sandor involuntarily looked at the clock. Thirty minutes had passed in the blink of an eye. He shook his head, “Until one of those cunts crossed the boundaries. Ask me to beat down some lowlife drug dealer, or better yet, some rich drug lord, or some fucker that peddles guns or girls… I’ve got no qualms with that…”</p><p>“But…”</p><p>Sandor looked down to his lap, suddenly feeling fidgety, “But when the <em>victims</em> are innocent people… innocent <em>girls… </em>whose only crime is being naïve…”</p><p>“Mmm….” Ray hummed, “You were told to hurt someone who you didn’t think deserved it.”</p><p>Sandor shrugged, “No, I didn’t hurt them. But they were hurt, and it was my job to clean it up.”</p><p>Ray was silent for long seconds and Sandor looked up, realizing what he had inferred, “No! Nothing like that… I’m not talking about offing someone, or even throwing a body into the bay… just to take them home after… after they’d fulfilled their <em>usefulness</em>.”</p><p>Somehow, even though he spoke the words to defend himself, they sounded worse than if he’d admitted to tossing a body in the river. After all, the dead don’t suffer. But the living? They wake up the next morning, sore and sticky between the legs, head throbbing, knowing they’d been violated, but also knowing they’d never get justice unless they were willing to risk their life and the lives of their family.</p><p>Ray nodded compassionately, and somehow it was worse than being judged. With a deep breath, the older man changed the subject, “I told you to come here with questions. What you want advice on… did you have the chance to think of this?”</p><p>He had, multiple times, but there was only one question that ever came to his mind. One he was afraid to ask, because Ray would undoubtedly know what he was <em>really </em>asking. But now was his best shot.</p><p>“Only one,” he answered after some time, “You spoke last week about relationships, friendships, support structures…”</p><p>Ray leaned back and smiled, “You want to know if it’s a bad idea to keep seeing Sansa.”</p><p>Sandor knew his eyes went wide. He expected Ray to figure it out <em>after</em> Sandor asked his question – which would have been whether it was good or bad for two recovering alcoholics to have a romantic relationship. Because despite his agreeing to be her friend, he couldn’t just be her friend. He <em>would</em> be, of course, if that’s all she wanted. He would be the guy who listened to her complain about her publisher. He’d be the shoulder she cried on. He’d eat meals with her at the very un-dateish hour of 3 PM on a Sunday. He’d watch movies with her, fall asleep beside her on his couch without ever touching her or kissing her. He’d do all of that, and she’d think he was her best friend, but he would be hopelessly in love with her.</p><p>He knew this because her smile lit up his world, just as her tears dimmed it. He knew it because, while he’d had plenty of fantasies involving her pretty lips on his cock, he’d had just as many of him taking her slowly, with her arms and legs wrapped around him, whispering in each other’s ear words of love and affection. He imagined cooking for her, making her pancakes and runny eggs so they didn’t have to leave the house at all. He imagined holding her when she was sick, comforting her when she was sad.</p><p>Ray cleared his throat, and Sandor felt his cheeks heat. He rolled his eyes, but it was directed at himself, not Ray… and Ray knew it.</p><p>“That obvious, huh?” Sandor grumbled.</p><p>Ray chuckled, “You think you’re the only one who learned how to be a prey, even if you became a predator? What do you think being in an active war zone does to a man? Noticing the kid offering to sell you a piece of fruit looks <em>nervous</em> instead of excited, being able to see that subtle difference, means the difference between walking away in one piece, or leaving as bits and pieces in a bag.”</p><p>“Aye, I suppose it would,” Sandor responded honestly. Though he’d thought about Ray’s life, he hadn’t much considered what being a soldier during war meant. He sympathized with it on a shallow level, like most people probably did, but he’d never drawn the parallels between his childhood – living in constant fear of attack – and the life of a combat soldier.</p><p>Ray slapped his hands on his thighs, “I wish I had a straightforward answer. Unfortunately, all I can say is, <em>it depends…</em> on whether you are both committed to walking the path, to maintaining sobriety, to starting over every time you fuck up – and no offense, but you <em>will</em> fuck up.”</p><p>Sandor nodded, “Sansa worries that if she tethers herself to me, and she falls overboard, I’m coming overboard.”</p><p>Ray nodded, “She’s a smart young woman, but her analogy reflects her cynicism. She worries she’ll be your boat anchor, weighing you down, instead of hoping you’ll be her life raft.”</p><p>Sandor blanched at his words even as hope bloomed in his chest, “What?”</p><p>“Don’t get me wrong. You each must deal with your issues – separately and thoroughly. Two halves don’t make a whole when it comes to relationships. But if you both do that, then I think there is more upside than risk.”</p><p>He clung to Ray’s words yet couldn’t believe them, “Why?”</p><p>Ray smiled again - that wise, knowing smile, “Have you and Sansa talked to each other? Shared things about your respective pasts?”</p><p>Sandor nodded, “She opened up to me the first night we hung out. I… took a little longer.”</p><p>“And had you ever told anyone else the things you told her? Or had she?”</p><p>Sandor shook his head, realization dawning.</p><p>“Both of you came here thinking you didn’t deserve to be here. That it was a bit of bad luck, or social injustice, that brought you here.”</p><p>Sandor snorted, “You saying it was fate?”</p><p>Ray shrugged, “I happen to believe in such things. In fact, something has happened recently that made me all but certain.”</p><p>Sandor – a man who put little stock in the Gods, or destiny, or anything else that he couldn’t see and touch – was suddenly personally invested in Ray being proven right. His voice was weak and pleading when he asked a simple question, “What was it?”</p><p>Ray’s eyes darkened slightly, and his smile fell, “What I have to say… I don’t think Sansa is ready to hear it. But I think it would be good for her to know, when the time is right.”</p><p>Sandor was confused but bid Ray to go on, his curiosity now feverish.</p><p>“Do you remember the reason I got sober? Rather, the catalyst that made me walk into that church, and talk to that priest?”</p><p>Sandor wracked his memory before nodding slowly, “A friend did something bad while he was drunk. You said it was a wakeup call for you.”</p><p>Ray nodded, “My friend was a truck driver. He was also a drunk.”</p><p>“He got in an accident and hurt someone?” Sandor asked, still not seeing the connection.</p><p>Ray nodded again, clearly waiting for the words to sink in, and when they did, they landed with a thud in the bottom of Sandor’s gut, “Sansa’s family was killed by a truck driver who fell asleep behind the wheel.”</p><p>Ray looked to the ceiling, and Sandor wondered if he was trying to suppress tears, “He wasn’t drunk when he hit them, but he had been the night before. Up all night partying when he should have been sleeping ahead of a 16-hour shift. Laws have tightened since then. Now truckers can only drive 10-hours at a clip… Anyway, ten years ago I was up drinking with him all night. I slept in the next day, but he had to be up at 9 AM to hit the road. That night, twelve hours into his shift, he fell asleep, crossed over the line, killing four people on impact and putting one into the hospital before his eventual demise…”</p><p>Ray sighed, “Perhaps a more noble man would have felt some guilt over being drinking with him the prior night, but truthfully, Vic would have been drinking that night whether I was there or not. It wasn’t guilt that drew me to the church, it was this oppressive feeling of <em>could-have-been-me</em>. How many times had I driven around sloshed in my big pickup truck? Hundreds?”</p><p>Ray shook his head, clearing away the memories, “I knew the name of the family my friend had killed. Saw it in the newspaper. And when, several weeks ago, I saw that name on the list of new attendees to my weekly meeting, I recognized it right away. At first, I wanted to tell the coordinator to put Sansa in a different group, but then I thought – <em>what are the odds?</em> That accident took place up north, where Sansa is from. At the time I was living near Saltpans. And now we’re both in King’s Landing – the same judicial district. How many things had to occur for Sansa Stark to be assigned to <em>my</em> support group in King’s Landing ten years after the accident? I took it as a sign… that accident no doubt set her on the trajectory she was on when she got charged with a DUI. If I could help her in some way, I owed it to her… But now I’m also wondering if she wasn’t destined to be here because of you, too. Because I think you both need a friend.”</p><p>Sometime during Ray’s story Sandor’s blood had run cold. How had he not pondered the odds of running into the very girl who altered his trajectory those six years ago? Without seeing her face, or hearing her voice, she had somehow pulled out of Sandor the part of him that wasn’t okay with being a complete piece of shit. And she was doing it again now, only even more so. Because it wasn’t enough to not be a criminal, he now wanted to be a good person. The type that donated to charity, that over-tipped waitresses, that smiled instead of scowled, that could be a good friend, and a good boyfriend. Twice Sansa Stark had changed his life without even trying. What would he call that other than fate?</p><p>Sandor looked to the clock, now with excitement instead of annoyance, it was five past eight. Their meeting had run over.</p><p>Sandor stood up, “I think you’re right about fate, Ray,” Sandor spoke through a grin, “And I think… if it’s okay with you, I might keep coming.”</p><p>The smile that lit up Ray’s wrinkled face was perhaps Sandor’s second-favorite smile to behold.</p><p>As Sandor practically jogged down the steps, he didn’t even bother lighting up a cigarette before grabbing his phone and clicking on Sansa’s name in his contacts. After a few rings it went to voicemail: <em>“You’ve reached Sansa Stark, I’m unable to take your call right now. Please leave a message and I’ll call you back at my earliest convenience.”</em></p><p>Sandor chuckled into the phone after the beep, “What a proper little message for a proper little bird. No one would ever guess you scarf down obscene portions of mushy pancakes, or the naughty things you made your Barbie dolls do… Anyway, Ray said you can make up the meeting by the end of the week and you’ll still be in the clear. I imagine your nose is buried in your laptop, typing away at your Hound book… Or maybe you had to meet with the lawyer about your aunt’s estate? I hope you’re not sick. Can you call or text me and let me know? Bye.”</p><p>Whereas he started the evening worried about Sansa, he now felt a sudden peace. He wasn’t lying when he told Ray he believed his meeting Sansa was fate. And he knew fate wouldn’t bring them together just to have her disappear from his life without a word. She was probably dealing with legal stuff related to her aunt’s will, or maybe had managed to track down her little sister. Maybe she found out her aunt left her millions, and she was reeling in shock. Or maybe it was as simple as she was under the weather or had lost track of time. She once told him she forgets to eat when deep in her writing; surely, she could forget about a meeting. He fell asleep sometime after 10, certain he’d wake up to a text or missed call from Sansa.</p><p>…When he woke to find neither of the sort, all notions of fate and hope were knocked out of him as if he’d been punched in the belly. All that was left behind was a sickening dread.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. She’s not your path to redemption</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sandor paced on the sidewalk outside the church, his t-shirt officially now a sweat rag as Spring seemed to have officially yielded to Summer during the past week.</p><p>It was Thursday afternoon, and he still hadn’t heard from Sansa. His mind spun around dozens of frightening scenarios, everything from her deciding she never wanted to see him again, even platonically, to her having been kidnapped by her creepy uncle. He had phoned Ray at lunchtime, asking if he could meet up with him. He didn’t mention Sansa, and Ray probably thought Sandor was having a personal crisis, that the temptation to drink was chipping away at his willpower.</p><p>In truth, the situation did make him want to drink – <em>badly. </em>But a bigger part of him somehow knew Sansa needed him, and he couldn’t help her if he was passed out on his couch.</p><p>He checked his watch for the umpteenth time, then, blessedly, saw Ray coming from around the corner.</p><p>Sandor practically accosted the man, “I need to know Sansa’s address.”</p><p>Ray looked up at him quizzically, “You don’t know it?”</p><p>“No, we’ve mainly hung out at a diner. She’s been to my place, once, but I’ve never been to hers.” Sandor had a vague notion of where she lived, but even if he could narrow it down to a one-block radius, that would mean hundreds of apartments in dozens of buildings.</p><p>They walked up the stairs side-by-side, “Sandor, I can’t give out another person’s personal information. Even if you and she are friends outside the meetings.”</p><p>“Ray, I’m not a fucking stalker. But something isn’t right. I know it.”</p><p>“You’ve tried calling?”</p><p>Sandor ran a hand down his face, but told himself not to lose his temper, “Of course. No answer, no call back.”</p><p>They were inside the meeting room now, but no one had arrived yet. Ray pursed his lips, “Sandor, that would be a serious breach of confidentiality…”</p><p>“Fuck, Ray. Listen. On Sunday I was with Sansa in the park. A man came up to her, turned out to be her uncle. But the guy gave me the creeps, and clearly Sansa had the same reaction. He told her that her aunt had died, and they were supposed to meet on Monday about the estate. But I have a bad feeling. She left that day in tears, without saying a word to me.”</p><p>Ray’s eyes widened with worry, “You think he’s done something to her?”</p><p>Sandor shook his head, “I don’t know, but I got the impression she didn’t want to be around him at all. I should have offered to go with her Monday to their meeting, but she was gone before I could even think of it.”</p><p>Ray looked compassionate but doubled down on his protests, “If you truly are worried, I will call the police, give them her address, ask them to do a welfare check.”</p><p>Sandor snorted, “The police? They’ll knock and if she doesn’t answer they’ll leave. They’ve got their hands full in this fucking city. And besides…”</p><p>“Besides what?”</p><p>Sandor looked toward the stain glass window before mumbling, “She’s on probation.”</p><p>Ray stiffened, “And if she’s violated that probation, she’s needs to be acc—”</p><p>“Fuck, Ray! You don’t know what she’s fucking been through, alright? Hells, I only know a fraction of it, and that’s enough to know she’s got plenty of reason to drink, or worse! She’s not out there causing trouble or hurting other people, so will you cut her some fucking slack?!” his temper had officially risen.</p><p>Instead of meeting Sandor’s ire, Ray spoke calmly, “She’s not your problem to fix, Sandor. And she’s not your path to redemption.”</p><p>Sandor shook his head, “I know that, Ray.” <em>As if I’m a position to fix anyone.</em></p><p>Ray took a deep breath, seemingly steeling himself for something, “I hope you’re wrong Sandor. I hope Sansa just has the stomach flu or is racing to meet a deadline. But if you’re right… if you find this mysterious uncle has done something, what are you going to do?</p><p>
  <em>Skin him alive.</em>
</p><p>“I’m going to call the police.”</p><p>Ray looked skeptical even as he nodded, “I can’t give you her address, Sandor,” Ray placed his phone down on a table, “Now I’ve got to go in the back and make coffee. I hope to see you next week.”</p><p>Ray walked through a metal door without looking back, and Sandor made a silent promise to come back not just next week, but every week for the rest of his miserable life. He picked up Ray’s phone, and found Sansa in his contacts, her name followed by six digits that were probably her case number in the court system. Beneath her name and phone number he saw an address.</p><p>…</p><p>Sandor pounded on the door for the fifth time. He’d been knocking for nearly five minutes without a response, though he heard a TV playing low through the door.</p><p>“Fuck,” Sandor mumbled as he descended the stairs, knowing he could outrun an elevator. On the first floor he found the super’s apartment and knocked loudly. A couple minutes later the door was yanked open by a middle-aged man who stunk of cigars and day-old pizza.</p><p>“Who’r you?” the man mumbled as he sized Sandor up.</p><p>Sandor knew this was the cunt that always gave Sansa a hard time, but he’d have to save that for another day.</p><p>“My friend lives in 7F. She hasn’t been answering any calls or showing up for meetings. I need you to unlock the door so I can check on her.”</p><p>“The redhead? She works from home, doesn’t have meetings.”</p><p>Sandor practically bit through his own tongue, “I didn’t say work meetings.”</p><p>The man eyed him up and down again, “You don’t look like the type she’d associate with.”</p><p>“You know what kind of people she associates with?”</p><p>“I know pretty girls like her don’t hang around mongrels like you. How do I know you’re not some pervert that’s been stalking her?”</p><p>Sandor’s threadbare patience snapped as he jerked the man up by his sweat-stained collar, “If I’m not her friend, then how would I know that you have a habit of making lewd remarks every time you see her? Or that you like to suggest ways she could pay her rent without any money passing hands?”</p><p>The man was satisfactorily frightened and held up his hands, “Don’t want no trouble.”</p><p>“No? Then open the door.”</p><p>“Even if you are her friend, I can’t do that—”</p><p>“Then how about I come in and look around?” Sandor took two steps into the man’s apartment, “I wonder what I might find on your computer. Are you the kiddy porn type, or the type that has secret cameras set up in some of the apartments? Perhaps hidden in the bathroom exhaust fans?”</p><p>The man shook his head, but Sandor saw the fear in his eyes.</p><p>“You going to open her door?”</p><p>With a defiant huff the man grabbed a huge key ring and led Sandor to the elevator for what was probably the longest minute ride of the man’s life. Sandor never took his eyes off him.</p><p>Once he unlocked her door, he moved to push it open, but Sandor stopped his hand, “You think I’m letting a sicko like you in my friend’s apartment before I know what state she’s in?” Sandor jerked his head back towards the elevators, “You can get back to whatever you were doing, <em>Mr. Blount.”</em></p><p>The man scurried away without another word, but the small feeling of victory evaporated the second Sandor pushed the door open and was accosted by the stench of liquor and something else.</p><p>The apartment opened into a small hallway. To the left was a small kitchen, the counters of which were littered with empty gin bottles of various shapes and sizes. Sandor’s hands began to tremble where he stood, still peering in from the hallway. His poisons of choice were, in order, whiskey, bourbon, gin, vodka. Rum and tequila were reserved for times of desperation. Dark beer and red wine were both favored, but they never had the pull that liquor did; they couldn’t offer the instant gratification of a warmed throat and buzz already in sight after the first two sips.</p><p>Only fear for Sansa could propel his feet forward instead of dragging him into the kitchen to see if maybe there was a shot’s worth left in one of those bottles. Sandor swallowed thickly and took two steps down the hall. Only once the booze bottles were out of his peripheral did Sandor realize that the place was sweltering.</p><p>
  <em>Her air conditioner still isn’t fixed… I’ll need to have another talk with Mr. Blount.</em>
</p><p>As he ventured further down the hall, he could see some courtroom “reality” TV show was playing in the living room. The only other furnishings he could see was the back of a large sofa and a desk strewn with papers. Despite his earlier rush, each step now instilled vague fear in him. When he was nearly at the back of the sofa something red caught his eye and he looked down to find Sansa face down on the couch, dressed in only gray cotton shorts and a white sports bra – the dead flower tattoo staring up at him now with a very different meaning.</p><p>Adrenaline kicked in again and Sandor rounded the sofa in three strides, kneeling in front of Sansa and slapping her cheek. He breathed a sigh of relief that her cheek was warm, even as the aromas of alcohol-tinged sweat and dried vomit made his stomach lurch.</p><p>It took minutes of repeating her name and lightly slapping her cheek before her eyes opened, but they were unfocused and seemed not to register him at all, only the light permeating through the tan curtains as she squinted.</p><p>“Whafuckin time isit?” she mumbled. So she did know he was there, though she might not know who “he” was.</p><p>“Thursday afternoon. You missed our meeting. You need to get up, Sansa.”</p><p>“Dintmiss the meeting, ‘member?” she slurred as she tried to sit up, aided by Sandor pulling her by the shoulders. He kept his hands there as she swayed even while sitting.</p><p>Her hand reached for a bottle, but Sandor stopped her, “No, girl. Sit here, I’ll get you some water.”</p><p>He ran to the kitchen, finding no clean glasses but a clean mug in a drainboard next to the sink. He filled it with water and brought it back to her, glad to find her still upright, although leaning back against the sofa with her eyes closed.</p><p>Sandor held the cup to her lips, “Drink.”</p><p>Her eyes opened slightly as she obeyed his command, then made a face, “Whathefuckisthis?”</p><p>“Water. Just fucking drink it.”</p><p>She shook her head too fast and before he could even think to find a waste bin or bucket, she sat forward and puked on her hardwood floor, barely missing Sandor’s sneakers.</p><p>“Fucking hells, little bird.”</p><p>She fell to her side on the sofa, unperturbed by the fact that she’d just hurled. It was nothing but liquid and Sandor realized, despite the numerous empty bottles, there wasn’t a sign of food anywhere.</p><p>“When was the last time you ate?”</p><p>“Whadayisit?”</p><p>“I told you, it’s Thursday… almost Thursday night.”</p><p>She held her hand up and looked to be trying to count on her fingers before giving up and dropping her hand back to the cushion, “Monay. Luch with unclepetyr.”</p><p>“What the fuck happened, Sansa? Did he… did that fucker do something to you?”</p><p>She smiled, “Heboughme a drink. It wassooo good.”</p><p>Sandor’s fists clenched. He didn’t know if this Petyr knew that Sansa was in a program, trying to stay sober, but he knew that Sansa wouldn’t have asked for a drink. Not when she was less than a week away from her probation ending. The fucker did it on purpose. He probably had a drink in front of her, then another, offered to buy her one, insisted perhaps, and wore her down. And now she’d been binge-drinking since Monday afternoon, and hadn’t eaten anything.</p><p>Sandor shook his head. She’d never keep anything down now; he needed to get her sobered up first. Luckily, he had plenty of experience in that domain. She needed to get and stay upright. She needed to drink water, and she needed to cool off.</p><p>Making his decision, Sandor picked her up and with one arm around her waist he half-carried, half-led her down the other hallway.</p><p>“Werewegoing?” she hiccupped.</p><p>“You need a shower.”</p><p>She snorted, “Yougonna help me Sandooor?”</p><p>If he weren’t so worried about what this bender would cost her, he would’ve laughed, remembering their playful text exchange from a couple Sundays ago.</p><p>
  <em>The Sunday you lost your shit, and she kept you from falling overboard. </em>
</p><p>Ray’s words from the prior night rang in his ears. <em>I can let her be my boat anchor, or I can be her life raft.</em></p><p>Finding the bathroom, Sandor was faced with the first awkward dilemma. There was no way she could stand in the shower by herself, not without risking a cracked skull. Though he was sweating hot, he didn’t look forward to submerging himself in ice cold water.</p><p>He sat her on the toilet, staying close in case she swayed too much to either side. He pulled off his shirt and her eyes widened, or at least as much as they could widen when they were only half open. After toeing off his sneakers and socks he unzipped and stepped out of his jeans but left on his boxers.</p><p>She looked up at him, more perplexed than concerned, “Yougonnafuckme?”</p><p>Sandor rolled his eyes, “No, I’m going to help you take a shower, remember?”</p><p>She nodded like a bobblehead, “Good. Petyrwanttofuckme… butIsay <em>NO. </em>Youbeen proud.” The matter of fact way she said it – as if it was nothing new – made Sandor want to forget about the shower and hunt down that Petyr fucking Baelish. But he knew he needed to deal with one problem at a time.</p><p>He turned on the shower instead, and lifted Sansa up and over the tub side as he climbed in. She immediately yelped when the cold water hit her skin, but he held her firmly in front of him, her back to his chest. She took the brunt of the spray, but he was quickly getting drenched.</p><p>She was obviously angry at him for what she probably thought was a cruel trick, but she at least obeyed when he told her to open her mouth and drink some of the shower water.</p><p>He just stood there, holding her tightly, ignoring the shivers wracking through his body. It was easy enough to distract himself by thinking about what Sansa had gone through to put her in this state.</p><p>She had told him she drank to drown out the memories, memories of events she was unwilling to share with him.</p><p>She had told him and Ray she lived with her uncle and aunt after her family died. Though, if Sandor remembered right, she made a point of telling them that Petyr was <em>not</em> her uncle. Meaning what? That he wasn’t a blood relative? That much Sandor had deduced by now. That he wasn’t worthy of the title? Probably. That she didn’t think of him as family? Maybe.</p><p>He didn’t know how many minutes passed before Sansa’s body was shaking against him, but it wasn’t from the cold. She was literally wracked with sobs. She seemed to now welcome the cold as she leaned to put her head directly beneath the spray, pressing one hand against the wall in front of her.</p><p>“I was so <em>stupid!”</em> she cried.</p><p>Sandor knew better than to say anything. Whatever she was unloading now wasn’t for his ears; this was all for her.</p><p>“Why didn’t I listen? Why didn’t I listen to my sister?”</p><p>She cried quietly for more minutes before turning around and pressing her cheek to his chest. The warmth of her tears mixed with the cold water to send more shivers through him, but as she wrapped her arms around his waist he could only contemplate how it felt like they were alone, drifting in the frigid ocean, and she was clinging to him for dear life.</p><p>…</p><p>Sansa managed to remove her wet shorts and bra and pull on a dry night dress while Sandor stood behind her with his eyes averted. She crawled into her queen size bed and fell asleep almost instantly.</p><p>The sun was making its descent, but Sandor knew he had a long night ahead of him. First, he found a trash bag and threw every bottle into it, even the ones that still bore some of the precious clear liquid. He knew he wouldn’t be able to dump it down the drain, lest he end up bent over the sink lapping at the stuff like a thirsty kid at the playground water fountain. Making sure he wouldn’t get locked out, he hauled the bag down to the trash chute, then returned to find cleaning supplies and set upon the unpleasant task of cleaning dried puke off the floor and couch. He even washed the dirty dishes in her sink and put them away to the best of his ability.</p><p>
  <em>When I pictured myself taking care of her when she was sick, this isn’t what I imagined.</em>
</p><p>Once all evidence of her bender was gone, he ordered Chinese food, figuring she might stomach white rice over just about anything else.</p><p>He was still awake at midnight when she padded out of her room, looking for a bottle but finding him instead.</p><p>“It’s all gone,” he mumbled from the table where he sat.</p><p>Her face looked embarrassed and then angry, “Why are you here?” she demanded.</p><p>“I was worried about you.”</p><p>“You have no right!”</p><p>“Perhaps not, but I worried anyway.”</p><p>“Well you can see I’m fine now, so you can leave.”</p><p>Sandor snorted, “A- You’re welcome. B- I’m not leaving.”</p><p>“Get out,” she growled, pointing at the front door.</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“I’ll call the police!”</p><p>“No you won’t.”</p><p>“Yes I will.”</p><p>“Fine, here,” Sandor slid her phone across the table toward her. She eyed it skeptically before picking it up. It had the expected reaction as she scrolled through what were undoubtedly many missed calls and texts – some from Sandor himself. She plopped into the chair across from him and put her head in her hands, crying again. It took all his restraint not to run to her side and hold her.</p><p>“I’m so fucked,” she mumbled pathetically.</p><p>“No you’re not.”</p><p>She nodded, “I missed our meeting.”</p><p>“Aye, but Ray said you can come in for it by Sunday. Any of those missed calls from your probation officer telling you to come in for a piss test?”</p><p>She shook her head.</p><p>“Well, hope it stays that way. But if they call you in first thing tomorrow, and you fail, then you lose your license. You ain’t going to jail for your first offense.”</p><p>“I know that, but I need my license.”</p><p>“Why? You work from home. When you need to leave the city, take the train, or a rideshare.”</p><p>“You don’t understand…”</p><p>“Then tell me.”</p><p>“I need to leave.”</p><p>No other four words in the common tongue could have delivered such a punch to the gut.</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>No response.</p><p>“Because of your uncle? Because he tracked you down?”</p><p>She nodded as her cheeks flushed.</p><p>Sandor leaned toward her, eyes narrowed, “You’re not running from that cunt. I don’t know what he did to you, but I know it was enough to send you into one hell of a downward spiral. Now if you feel the need to get out of this apartment, this building, you can come stay with me until you find a new place. But if you stay here, you’re going to call me if that fucker ever contacts you again, if he ever shows up here. If you need to meet with him or his fancy fucking lawyers about your aunt’s estate, I’m coming with you. And if you say the word, I’m going to beat that fucker until he pisses blood and forgets his own name. You hear me?”</p><p>Her brow furrowed in confusion, “Why?”</p><p>“Cause he’s a fucking cunt; can tell just by looking at him.”</p><p>“No, I mean why would you do that for me? You barely know me.”</p><p>Sandor sat back, crossing his arms over his broad chest, “Because you’re a good person, and I don’t meet good people every day.”</p><p>She shook her head, tears welling in her eyes again, “I’m not a good person.”</p><p>Sandor rolled his eyes, “Trust me, little bird—”</p><p>“No! You trust <em>me…</em> I’m not good. I’ve done things…”</p><p>“Aye, so have I. You know that. And what did you tell me? That I’m not a bad man.”</p><p>“But you didn’t say I’m ‘not a bad person’. You said I’m a good person. I’m not.”</p><p>Sandor huffed, “Then why don’t you tell me and let me be the judge. I did that for you, didn’t I?”</p><p>She wiped a tear from her cheek, looking toward the window, “Because I couldn’t stand it if you hated me. If you thought I was stupid and crazy and fucked up.”</p><p>Sandor threw his head back and laughed, “I know you’re not stupid. And I know you’re not crazy. And if you’re fucked up, then you’re no worse than me.”</p><p>She shook her head and repeated her original question, seemingly unsatisfied with his response, “Why?”</p><p>Sandor stood up slowly, knowing what he must do. He walked to her side of the table and clasped the back of her head gently, pulling himself down to kiss the crown of her head, “You know why.”</p><p>Sandor rose to his full height and nodded toward the couch, “Now either I’m sleeping on your couch, or you’re sleeping on mine. The key difference being my couch is in an air-conditioned apartment. Your choice, little bird.”</p><p>She shook her head, looking as defeated as a person could be, but twenty minutes later they were strolling down the sidewalk of the sleeping city. In one hand Sandor held the bag of Chinese takeout. The other hand wrapped around slender fingers that felt so fragile it made him want to cry.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. I’m fucked up</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warning: this chapter earns many of the tags. If any of the tags are triggers for you, please don't proceed!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Sandor woke the next morning, the sun had barely risen yet he already smelled coffee percolating. After dressing, he exited his bedroom and found Sansa sitting on his window ledge, staring out at the world over the steam of a cup of coffee.</p><p>He stuffed his hands into his pockets before breaking her apparent reverie, “How do you feel?”</p><p>“Like shit,” she shrugged, “but I suppose I’d be feeling even worse if not for you.”</p><p>“It was no problem, though I must say that was the least fun I’ve ever had in a shower with a woman.”</p><p>Her eyebrow cocked skeptically, “Take many showers with women?”</p><p>Sandor shook his head as he walked toward the coffee pot, “Smart ass.”</p><p>He was over-aware that Sansa might need space and quietude, so he sat at his table drinking his coffee while scrolling through his phone. He pretended to be reading news feeds, but his eyes didn’t register anything on the screen.</p><p>Sansa plopped down in the chair diagonal from him, “Don’t you have to go to work?” she asked.</p><p>“Umm, I called Selmy last night, told him I’d be taking a day off today.”</p><p>“Sandor – I don’t…”</p><p>“Don’t sweat it, I don’t think I’ve ever called off in the years I worked there. Maybe once or twice with a hangover. Anyway, with my work it’s about getting a job done by the time you committed to the client. I don’t have to punch a timeclock, per se… What about you? You want to go get your laptop so you can work here? I’ll stay out of your hair.”</p><p>Sansa shifted uncomfortably, “Sandor, I’m trying to ignore the fact that what you’re doing – what you’ve done – goes above and beyond what a friend who’s known me for a few weeks would do.” She shook her head, “Gods, that makes me sound ungrateful. I’m not, okay? I appreciate all of this. But I can’t let you do it because you think I’m something I’m not… someone you might want to be with.”</p><p>Sandor shook his head, “Didn’t we talk about this already? You’re giving me fucking whiplash here, girl. And moreover you seem to be holding you and me to different standards. You think I need you to be perfect when <em>I’m</em> anything but?”</p><p>“No, I know you’re not like that. You can hate yourself all you want Sandor, but I can tell you’re a good guy. And I don’t want you doing all this for me – spending the night cleaning up my fucking apartment, taking a day off to stay with me, offering to let me crash here, offering to beat up my uncle… I don’t want you doing it all because you’re hoping, someday, I’ll be more than just a friend. Because I don’t know if I’m capable. I’ve never…” she looked to the floor, “I’ve gone on dates in my twenties. I dated in high school before… before the accident. But I’ve never been with someone in a <em>real </em>relationship. Like, one that lasts for more than a month and a few fucks. I don’t know if I’ll ever be capable, but I definitely know I’m not capable now.”</p><p>Sandor snorted, “You and me both, but I’m willing to try.”</p><p>“Well I’m not going to be so cavalier with your heart!” Sansa snapped, seemingly out of nowhere, then she palmed her forehead, “I think I need to talk to someone, Sandor.”</p><p>“Okay. You mean, like, a shrink? Or Ray?”</p><p>Sansa nodded, “I need to talk to Ray for starters. I don’t think I can say what I have to say to a complete stranger, and I need to get this out before it swallows me from the inside.”</p><p>Sandor nodded, “Call Ray.”</p><p>…</p><p>The earliest Ray could meet with Sansa was 8 PM that night. As the rest of the city were heading out to restaurants, bars, clubs, cinemas, and hookah lounges, Sandor Clegane was sitting in the fluorescent-lit meeting room of the church, eyes darting between Sansa and Ray. Sandor planned on just walking her to the church and walking her home, but as she stood on the sidewalk outside the church, she surprised him by telling him to come with her. When he protested, she pulled him up the steps by the hand, telling him to hurry up before she lost her nerve.</p><p>But apparently sometime in the subsequent minutes, she lost her nerve anyway. Ray sat patiently but expectantly. Sandor tried to look like he wasn’t terrified of hearing what she had to say.</p><p>“Sansa,” Ray spoke gently after ten minutes had passed in silence.</p><p>“I know,” she rubbed her forehead, “I’m just… I’ve never told anyone this. I don’t even know where to start.”</p><p>Ray smiled sadly, “Try chronological order.”</p><p>“I use a lot of flashbacks in my stories. I sometimes forget linear plot is an option,” she forced an awkward smile, then took a deep breath. “My middle brother, Bran, didn’t die right away in the accident. I told you this. I told you he died after being in a coma. He was in a coma for three months, during which time I turned sixteen. With no living parents, at that age I was legally able to act as next of kin. To make medical decisions, as long as I had the sign-off of a legal guardian.”</p><p>She rubbed her eyes, “Actually, that’s not the beginning. The beginning is after my parents and two brothers, Robb and Rick, died. My sister Arya and I were supposed to go live with my Aunt Lysa and cousin Robert. Lysa had married a childhood friend named Petyr about two years before the accident. My little sister, who was thirteen at the time, couldn’t stand Lysa. I didn’t like her much either. She was always a vindictive woman, never let a mistake go unpunished type. Of course, with the exception of her son, Robert. At eleven years old she still treated him like an infant. And it had always been that way. During holidays he would literally smack us, grab us, throw things at us, and Lysa would say he was just having a bad day. Then she’d get mad at us because if we gave back as good as we got, Robert would run and cry to her. Anyway, I suppose the reason she was like that was because Robert was sickly. He had an immune disorder and would get sick at least five times a year and be in the hospital for weeks at a time. I know I should have been more compassionate, but the boy was a hellion. It was hard to feel bad for someone who tormented you ceaselessly and got away with it...”</p><p>Sansa shook her head, “Where was I?”</p><p>Ray jutted his chin, “You and Arya were supposed to live with your aunt and cousin.”</p><p>“Right,” Sansa nodded, her forehead taut in concentration, “And my relatively new uncle Petyr. I was the big sister, but Arya was the tough one. The tomboy. The one who saw through people’s façades. I was the one who always wanted to find the good in people, or at least figure out why the bad was there to begin with. I’d be the first to defend Robert, for instance, and my siblings would groan every time I did… Anyway, Arya didn’t want to live with them. I didn’t much care where we lived, I was too busy shattering due to the loss of my family. I think somehow that two-year age difference made me feel responsible. I helped Aunt Lysa plan the funerals, picked out the suits my brothers and dad would be buried in, the dress for my mom,” tears streamed down her cheeks, and Sandor literally gripped the side of the metal folding chair to keep from running to her.</p><p>“So when Arya told me she didn’t trust Lysa and Petyr, that she thought Petyr was a creep, I got so angry. It felt like the least of our problems. Our whole family was dead in the blink of an eye, and she was ranting and raving about how she didn’t trust something in Petyr’s eyes. I got so mad at her. I thought she was looking for reasons not to grieve, to distract herself from reality… so we weren’t getting along that well, and two months after the accident she left. Didn’t leave a note, didn’t tell us even which direction she’d head,” Sansa’s lips trembled, “she was just fucking <em>gone.</em>”</p><p>Sansa shook her head violently, seemingly trying to compose herself. Ray and Sandor waited patiently.</p><p>“My brother was completely dependent on life support. The doctors said the chances of any recovery were virtually zero. All I heard was ‘virtually’ – all Lysa and Petyr heard was ‘zero’. I won’t go into details, but over the course of next month they convinced me I was being cruel keeping him alive. They had the nerve to use my dead family against me – saying he deserved to be in the Heavens with them. I let them convince me they were right, and three months after the accident, to the day, they took Bran off life support. I signed the papers along with my aunt. I killed my baby brother. My brother who liked to climb trees, to pretend he was an explorer. I killed him. Because Lysa and Petyr just saw the cost of keeping him alive. Thousands of dollars a day. My parents were wealthy, but their will put most of it into trust funds that would be available to their kids when they turned twenty-four or graduated college, whichever came first. They had a nice life insurance policy, but after four funerals and Bran’s medical bills, they were burning through it fast.”</p><p>Sansa snorted, “Arya would have seen right through it, but I didn’t. I thought they truly cared about Bran,” she shook her head, “I was so stupid, falling for it… One night, Petyr had taken me to the hospital to visit Bran. I remember Petyr standing behind the chair I sat in, putting his hands on my shoulders, and telling me I was torturing myself. That if I let Bran go, I could begin truly healing.” Sansa huffed derisively, turning to meet Sandor’s eyes for the first time since she started talking, “You hate pretentious cunts and liars, right? Petyr Baelish is the king of them all.”</p><p>With a sigh, Sansa continued, “The night Bran died was the first time I drank as a coping mechanism. I’d had champagne at New Years, stolen a few sips of my parents’ booze with my friends, egg nog at Sevenmas… but that night I sat with Petyr at the dining room table. He poured me a sniffer of brandy. That almost instant relief it brought was… <em>divine</em>. Just taking the edge off of my sadness, which had been oppressive for months, felt like being pulled from the rubble after an earthquake.”</p><p>Sansa shook her head, “In truth, I don’t think he wanted me to become addicted. Petyr is too controlled, too measured, to want a volatile drunk in his house… he had enough drama with Aunt Lysa and Robert… But he <em>definitely</em> wanted me to be more pliable. He definitely wanted to be the one who introduced me to that sweet relief.”</p><p>Sandor shifted, hating the way the chair squeaked loudly beneath his weight. He’d already heard enough to know Sansa was perfectly justified in whatever vices she chose to pursue, but he had a feeling she was just getting started…</p><p>When she chuckled bitterly, he knew he was right.</p><p>“Quick aside – want to know why I didn’t go with my family on that <em>fateful</em> night? Arya was away at fencing camp, so I’d have the whole house to myself. I told my parents I had a bellyache, but I lied. I wanted the boy I was dating to come over. I thought we’d make out, cuddle on the sofa, watch a movie. Of course, that wasn’t enough for him and he ended up storming out of my house calling me a cock tease… but I digress…”</p><p>As Sansa continued her story her tone became less sad, more hostile, angrier, more sarcastic, “So where to next? Let’s see, so I’m sixteen, living with my crazy aunt, my spoiled, sickly cousin, and my manipulative uncle. It’s become a habit to start the day by sneaking a few sips of my aunt’s wine, or a shot of liquor, whatever I can get my hands on without raising suspicion. It’s also become a habit for <em>Uncle</em> Petyr to offer comfort in ways that would border on <em>illegal</em>, given my age at the time. But after all I’d been through, I didn’t feel like a kid. Not at all. I felt helpless, yes. Depressed. Confused. But immature? No. I thought I was so grown up. Didn’t help that in contrast to my aunt and cousin I <em>was</em> mature…”</p><p>“So Lysa spent many nights at the hospital with Robert. I spent many nights crying alone in my bedroom. When those two events coincided, Petyr would come to me, hold me, kiss my forehead, whisper words of comfort in my ear... eventually he started kissing me on the lips, stroking my waist, my hips… I can’t tell you how long it went on like that, but I can remember like it was yesterday the first time he… went further. He made it sound so <em>clinical</em>… he was going to make me feel good so I could forget about my sorrow and get a good night’s sleep. It felt wrong, but it also felt good. It was a distraction. More importantly, it felt like something other than crippling sadness. Just as the first sip of brandy did, the first time Petyr touched me felt like discovering some secret remedy…”</p><p>Sansa stared out the stained-glass window, “It went on like that for weeks, maybe a couple months, before he graduated again – before he asked me to reciprocate. And that felt wrong, too, but it also felt good to be praised. To be his <em>good girl.</em> It felt like when my dad would give me a hug or take me for ice cream when I brought home a report card with straight A’s. It felt like when my big brother Robb would ruffle my hair affectionately.”</p><p>Sansa squeezed the bridge of her nose, “I was seventeen when my cousin Robert died. My aunt became even crazier – washing sedatives down with wine so she could sleep. That was when Uncle Petyr graduated again. He knew boys were always interested in me, he saw the texts I would get, inviting me to parties or on dates. He wanted me all to himself. He told me no boy would ever love me like he did, that I shouldn’t waste my precious virginity on some guy who’d use me and lose me.” Sansa shrugged, “So he took it instead. I felt sick the entire time, and every time that followed. Everything we’d done before I could chalk up as fooling around… but that felt <em>really</em> wrong. That’s how people make babies, I remember thinking, and I was doing it with my aunt’s husband. But I didn’t stop him, I just made sure to be extra drunk at night, so it wouldn’t bother me so much. But then I woke up feeling dirty and far too sober, so I drank more in the morning, too. And that wore off by lunchtime, so I drank some more, then. Lysa was oblivious, but Petyr saw it. He told me to slow down and I remember one night I got bold, I told him he should want me good and plastered or else I’d never let him touch me.”</p><p>Sandor tried to remain still, to not betray the anger and sadness that were welling inside him. There was a special place in hell for men like Petyr Baelish, he had to believe. And he’d love to be the person to send him there.</p><p>“After that, he started talking about the future, as if he was going to leave Lysa, though he never said that explicitly. He talked about how we could be together someday. That our age difference didn’t matter. He said he would marry me. I was usually plastered, and I knew better than to challenge him. I just counted down the days until I could get out of there. I graduated and wanted to leave – to go away to college. But he convinced me to go to the local community college at least for my first year. When I look back, I can’t remember what he said to get me to agree. I must have wanted it, on some level. He made me sick, and yet it was all I knew. I think now that it was better to feel disgusted than depressed. A minute spent with Petyr was a minute I wasn’t thinking about my family... So I stayed. But Petyr had gotten careless, I guess because Lysa was catatonic most days, and passed out most nights. One day he found out I was going on a date with a guy I met in my Literature class, so he asserted his claim right there on the sofa. I let him because I just wanted it over with so I could go on my date.” Sansa snorted, “Can you imagine? Letting Petyr fuck me was akin to a kid taking out the trash or finishing their homework so they could go out and play.”</p><p>Sansa shook her head, “Lysa had come out of her cave, to get more wine, no doubt, and saw us… first she attacked Petyr, then she attacked me. Petyr literally had to pull her off of me, but he was a slight man, and she was crazed. She kicked me, pulled my hair, punched me, slapped me. And I just laid there and took it. It made my adrenaline pump, and that felt good. If not for Petyr, I probably would have laid there and let her beat me to death, but he eventually got her to calm down. He told her I needed help, that I had seduced him, but that it wasn’t my fault because of all the trauma I’d gone through. He told her he was going to drop me off at a rehab center. Instead he took me to a hotel, didn’t come inside of course, because everyone would have noticed the bruising on my cheek and assumed it was his doing. He dropped me off, handed me a wad of cash and a credit card, and told me he’d call me when it was all blown over. He said he wouldn’t abandon me. That we’d be together someday. I waited until he drove off, called my friend Mya from college, and she came to pick me up. I smashed my cell phone, cut up his credit card, and told her I was moving to King’s Landing. I didn’t tell her about Petyr, but she’d have been dumb not to realize I was running from someone. She just shrugged and said, “I always wanted to live in the city.” The semester was almost over so we finished it out, then moved to the city, enrolled in the local college. Well, I did… she got a job as a waitress in a restaurant. A couple months later our other friend Myranda moved in… I lived with them for a little over a year before moving to my own place.”</p><p>
  <em>Because you were afraid of Joffrey.</em>
</p><p>“I never saw Petyr again until a few days ago, when he told me my aunt had died. I met with him Monday, and now I know why he was so eager… apparently my parents had a bigger estate than I was led to believe. A large portion of it went to Lysa since she became our guardian. She was allowed to withdraw so much per year to live on, to pay for us to go to college, that kind of thing. But per my parent’s will, when she died the remainder would revert back to their kids. Arya is M.I.A., so I get half of it, and the other half will go into a trust for Arya, which I’ll be the executor of.”</p><p>“So this… Petyr, is trying to endear himself to you now,” Ray’s voice made Sandor jump. Sansa had been talking nonstop, with only occasional breaks to sigh or wipe her eyes, for a half hour.</p><p>Sansa nodded, “He took me to lunch, ordered a gin and tonic. I ordered an iced tea. He ordered a second. I held my ground, but I could feel my willpower fading each time he took a sip, each time he looked in my eyes. He took my hand and I just…”</p><p>Ray smiled sadly, “You felt like you were sixteen again…”</p><p>She nodded, “He spoke about the past. He acted like I haven’t gone nearly seven years without seeing him. He talked about how I need someone to take care of me. How he loves me, and it was only his sense of honor that kept him with Lysa all those years. Honestly, if it hadn’t taken seven years for it to happen, I’d have suspected him of foul play… anyway, it doesn’t matter. I didn’t fall for his bullshit, but…”</p><p>“But you had a drink,” Ray said. It wasn’t a question.</p><p>She nodded weakly, “I… it was hard to face him. When I was a kid, I drank so that I could face him… so that his touch would feel good, or at least tolerable. I couldn’t face him sober.”</p><p>She stared down at her hands as a blush bloomed on her cheeks.</p><p>Ray sat back in his chair, appraising her, “You think it’s your fault.”</p><p>Sansa snorted, “You think it’s not?”</p><p>Ray narrowed his eyes, “You were a kid. First of all, the law shouldn’t let sixteen-year-olds make those kinds of medical decisions, even with a legal guardian. And no matter how mature you may have felt at sixteen, seventeen, eighteen – you certainly shouldn’t have had to be the adult in the household. And what your uncle did…”</p><p>Sansa squeezed her forehead, “I know it was wrong. I know he was – and <em>is</em> – a fucking creep. I know it wasn’t my fault – my brain knows that – but I can’t stop feeling guilty.”</p><p>“Of course you can’t!” Ray chuckled, “Because you’re not ready to forgive yourself. Getting over your guilt – stopping the self-blame – that would mean acknowledging that you <em>weren’t</em> in the wrong, and that you deserve your own forgiveness.”</p><p>Tears welled in her blue eyes again, “How <em>can</em> I deserve it? How can I deserve it when my family are all dead!? My sister might be dead for all I know, on her own since age thirteen because I didn’t listen to her, and because I wasn’t strong for her. Yet <em>I’m </em>the one who needs forgiveness?!”</p><p>“It’s not your fault they died, Sansa.”</p><p>“I could have changed something! All I’d need to do was alter the course of events by a few seconds, do you realize that?! You think that through the entire night my mere presence couldn’t have done that?! Instead I was at home, after lying to my parents, making out with some jerk! The last words I spoke to my parents were a lie!”</p><p>Sandor couldn’t sit still another moment. He crossed the ten feet between them and kneeled in front of her, pulling her into his arms. Fuck whatever Ray thought. Fuck what was proper. Fuck what Sansa thought she needed from him.</p><p>“Do you understand now?!” she sobbed into his shirt, the sleeve quickly soaking with her tears.</p><p>He stroked her hair, “I do. I understand. I understand your life was one shit storm after another. I understand why you feel some responsibility. I would, too. But that doesn’t mean you’re right.” He pulled her away, holding her by the shoulders so he could look into her eyes, “And if you think it changes the way I feel about you, you’re wrong.”</p><p>She shook her head, “I’m fucked up, Sandor. The longest relationship I’ve ever had was with my uncle – the man who was forty-four when I was sixteen.”</p><p>“So? The longest relationship I’ve ever had was with a woman who never called me before one in the morning. She used me for sex even though she couldn’t look me in the eye. And I let her use me because I felt too shitty about myself to think I deserved something better.”</p><p>Her eyes glistened with pity, “You deserve so much better than that! You deserve someone who loves you. Someone who knows how funny and clever and sweet you are. Someone who will appreciate you!”</p><p>“And you don’t?”</p><p>She shook her head, “I don’t know.”</p><p>“But do you <em>want</em> it?” Ray’s voice cut through their private dialogue.</p><p>She shrugged, “Yes, but—”</p><p>“No but’s. You want it, and you deserve it. But you’ll never have it until you <em>recognize</em> that you deserve it. You won’t find it in the man kneeling before you now, or in any other person in this city, until you find it in yourself.”</p><p>Sansa nodded slowly, “I know that. I think…”</p><p>“What do you think?”</p><p>“I thought I could figure it out. But… I think I need help, Ray.”</p><p>Ray nodded, “Okay. You’re not alone,” he jerked his head toward Sandor.</p><p>She turned to face Sandor again. He only shrugged, “I told Ray I’m going to keep coming to meetings. At least give it a try.”</p><p>Sansa smiled at him for the first time since they left his apartment that evening, “That’s great! I hope it helps. I think I might need something different though. I think I might want to try therapy,” she rolled her eyes, “I feel like a fucking priss even saying that, but…”</p><p>Ray shook his head firmly, “There’s no shame in it. There’s a stigma around it, to some extent. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t work.”</p><p>Sansa nodded, with a mischievous smile on her face, “Doesn’t mean I won’t miss our little support group.”</p><p>Sandor smirked as Ray threw his head back and laughed, “Six weeks ago, did either of you think you’d ever miss this? Or that you’d voluntarily subject yourself to more of it?”</p><p>They both laughed this time as they shook their heads in disbelief.</p><p>Ray had a twinkle in his eye, and perhaps the start of a tear when he dipped his head humbly, “Then I’ve done my job.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. She was never really here</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Short chapter</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>
    <em>Nine months later</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>“I know you don’t like the pats on the back you get from the group, but congratulations are still in order. Come on, let’s celebrate.”</p><p>Sandor rolled his eyes but didn’t object when Ray started walking down the street.</p><p>“You ever eat at that diner at 5<sup>th</sup> and Blackwater?”</p><p>Sandor smiled to himself, “Aye. Good burgers there.”</p><p>“Good. This one’s on me.”</p><p>Twenty minutes later they were sitting at the counter about to dig into their burgers when Ray cleared his throat, “One year sober.”</p><p>“Aye,” Sandor mumbled.</p><p>Ray nodded, seemingly knowing more discussion on that topic wouldn’t be welcome. Sandor made a lot of progress in the past year, but he still hated anything that bordered on praise. Ray munched his fries thoughtfully before speaking again, “Talk to Sansa lately?”</p><p>Sandor shrugged, “We text once in a while.”</p><p>“And?”</p><p>“And I think she’s good.”</p><p>“Still in the city?”</p><p>“Aye, though she moved pretty shortly after… after our last meeting. Uptown. She’s a rich girl now, joked in a text once that she can afford the top-shelf booze now that she can’t drink the stuff.”</p><p>“Still writing?”</p><p>“Yeah, she had finished the novel she was working on when we met. Been working on another for a while. We don’t really talk much, though.”</p><p>Ray nodded, “Just a quick check in?”</p><p>“Yeah, make sure we’re each still breathing, still staying clean.”</p><p>“And she is? I mean, as far as you can tell?”</p><p>“I think so. I think she’d tell me if she wasn’t. Said she goes to therapy once a week.”</p><p>“That’s great! Sounds like you talk a lot.”</p><p>“Not really, that’s pretty much all I know after all these months.”</p><p>Ray nodded and moved on to easier topics. They talked sports. Sandor told him about the latest bike he was building for some rich dude from Dorne. But as the conversation flowed, Sandor never stopped thinking about Sansa. The ache her absence caused him never quite went away. It would dull at times, but it always there, right in his heart, right beneath his tattoo. He didn’t know how she felt about him, other than that she obviously liked him enough to occasionally reach out by text. He doubted she spent most of her waking hours thinking about him, as he did with her. He doubted she’d approve of the second tattoo he’d gotten on the inside of his forearm, of a small red bird about to take flight.</p><p>Despite his melancholy over Sansa, his life was much better than it had been a year ago. He went to meetings once a week. He volunteered at a rescue mission that catered to homeless war vets, even hired one to help out at the shop since Selmy was inching his way toward retirement. He even went on a date – <em>one</em> date – Selmy’s niece, who had gone through a rough divorce. No sparks flew, but they had a nice time. The woman wasn’t intimidated by his scars – her ex-husband had a pretty face but was a complete asshole, from what Sandor had gathered from Selmy’s occasional outbursts over the years. She seemed to find Sandor’s appearance and no-bullshit attitude refreshing. And he found her nonjudgmental attitude refreshing.</p><p>Sandor could objectively look at the past year and say he’d made progress. He didn’t rely on drinking to get through the day. He didn’t resort to anger quite as quickly. He didn’t assume the worst of people. Behind every pretty girl he saw a potential Sansa, and it made him decide to be just a little more sympathetic. He remembered Ray once telling him that what you put out there is what you get back, and Sandor gradually realized that his height and his scars weren’t what made people afraid of him; it was the anger in his eyes, the scowl plastered to his face. When he became less angry, people seemed less afraid of him.</p><p>Still, none of it compared to Sansa, who met his eyes even when they were thunderclouds. Who wrapped her arms around his waist even when he must have looked homicidal. He analyzed that characteristic about her a lot in the past nine months. Did she have a death wish or was she really that brave and caring?</p><p>Ray interrupted his musings, “You miss her.” Again, it wasn’t a question.</p><p>Sandor considered downplaying it, but he didn’t want to. Sansa was worthy of being missed, and there was no shame in someone like Sandor Clegane feeling a little less whole without her around, “Every fucking day. Sometimes it feels like… like she was the one who got away.” Sandor laughed at himself for even using that cliché phrase, but there was no better way to describe how he felt about her.</p><p>“That implies she was yours to keep.”</p><p>“I know that’s not—”</p><p>“No, I know you know… I just mean, she can’t have gotten away, because she was never really here.”</p><p>Sandor knew what he meant; Sansa had too much bullshit to work through before she could be anything to anyone. And yet, when they were alone together at the diner, she seemed so utterly whole. She laughed easily, teased good-naturedly, and spoke passionately.</p><p>“She was here,” Sandor disagreed, “she just couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t stay in that moment.”</p><p>Ray’s eyes widened and he smiled teasingly, “Sandor Clegane! I think my wisdom is rubbing off on you.”</p><p>“Ray, anyone ever tell you you’re a cocky sonofabitch?”</p><p>Ray laughed heartily, “Yes, but the reality is I <em>am</em> wise, and it’s okay to recognize it. If I lived through all the shit I lived through and <em>didn’t</em> come out with some wisdom to share, then I’d be a complete waste of space.”</p><p>Sandor chuckled, “Aye, I suppose that’s true.”</p><p>Ray looked around the diner, “That was a good burger, you were right. I wonder how their breakfast is.”</p><p>Sandor stood up and clapped Ray on the shoulder, “Thanks for dinner, Ray. See you next week.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Hello Lovely</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>
    <em>Five months later</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>“Thought I’d never see the day,” Sandor grumbled.</p><p>“Ah, shut up. You’ll see someday, how hard it is for you to hand it over to someone else.”</p><p>“When I’m as old as you are, Selmy, I’ll be handing it over to the first fool who’s willing to take it.”</p><p>Bronn chuckled from the storage closet, “No way you’ll live to be his age.”</p><p>Sandor laughed, “Not if I have to put up with you every day.”</p><p>“I thought you hired me because I’m good company?”</p><p>Selmy rolled his eyes, “He hired you as an act of penance.”</p><p>Sandor chuckled, “Won’t deny that... Anyway, will you get out of here, already? You know you’ll be back to check on things next week, don’t turn this into a long goodbye.”</p><p>“Aye,” Bronn nodded, “Might make the big guy say something sentimental then it’ll be awkward as fuck when you come back.”</p><p>“I ain’t coming back, boys. At least not next week. I’ve already booked an Essosi cruise. I won’t be back on Westerosi soil for fourteen days.”</p><p>“Good for you,” Sandor smiled.</p><p>Selmy handed over his keys. It was more symbolic than anything; Sandor had keys to the shop since his second year working there. But as he stared down at the metal keys, unadorned by any fancy keyring, it did feel official. The shop was officially <em>his</em>. He owned it now. Or more accurately, would own it in five years when he was done paying Selmy. Sandor had wanted to take out a loan to give Selmy the lump sum, but Selmy preferred an annuity.</p><p>After Selmy finally said ‘so long’ Sandor glanced at his watch. It was 5:30 on a Friday evening, and as usual he had no plans. The temptation to see if Bronn wanted to grab a beer to celebrate Sandor officially being the owner of Kingsguard Customs was there, but he knew by now such cravings passed with time or a distraction. With a sigh he headed to the break room to make himself a cup of coffee. He drank about seven cups a day now, which probably wasn’t healthy, but it was better than booze.</p><p>As the water heated in the Keurig he heard a woman’s voice greet Bronn with a timid ‘hello’. Sandor rolled his eyes as he heard Bronn jog up to the front desk, <em>“Hello lovely! What brings you to our fine establishment? In the market for a bike? I’d love to take you on a test ride.”</em></p><p>Sandor huffed, Bronn was the definition of a flirt, though he was harmless enough.</p><p>“Um, no. I’m looking for Sandor Clegane. Does he work here?” At the woman’s words Sandor forgot all about his coffee and ran out of the room like a fool, eyes instantly falling on Sansa.</p><p>She smiled at him nervously, “Hey, Sandor.”</p><p>“Little bird—” he practically whispered, but it was loud enough for Bronn to hear.</p><p>“Little <em>bird</em>? She the inspiration for the—”</p><p>“Shut the fuck up, Bronn,” Sandor snapped without taking his eyes off Sansa. He closed the distance to Sansa, who appeared stuck to her spot, “What are you doing here?”</p><p>Her brow furrowed, “I’m sorry. I know it’s inappropriate to show up at your place of—”</p><p>“It’s fine,” Sandor blurted.</p><p>She smiled again, but still seemed hesitant. Perhaps it was only Bronn’s presence. Sandor turned to him, “Go smoke a cigarette.”</p><p>“Just had one,” Bronn smirked.</p><p>“Then clean the supply closet.”</p><p>“Did that earlier.”</p><p>“Fuck, Bronn, go take a shit, get a soda… do something, will ya?”</p><p>“Jeez, only the boss for one day and already acting like a cunt.”</p><p>“I always acted like a cunt, now beat it.”</p><p>With an exaggerated bow toward Sansa, Bronn finally said goodbye and headed home for the day.</p><p>As Sandor silently cursed the man, he noticed Sansa was now smirking.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“You own the place now?”</p><p>Sandor snorted, “Yeah, for about five minutes.”</p><p>She smiled genuinely, but she still looked reserved, “Good for you. Your friend seems… quirky.”</p><p>“Aye, that he is. But he isn’t my friend… So, uh…”</p><p>“Right, why am I here. Sorry for showing up unannounced. I lost my phone a month ago. Apparently, my contacts weren’t backed up in the cloud, and I’d never memorized your number. I know I could’ve tried calling here first, but…” she rubbed her forehead.</p><p>Sandor hadn’t even noticed that she was holding a box until she held it out toward him, “I would’ve left it outside your apartment door, but I wasn’t sure if you still lived there.”</p><p>“I live there,” Sandor mumbled as he took the box, too stunned for any more of a response. Before he could compose himself, she was gone, and he hadn’t even thought to ask for her new number or to tell her she looked great – which she did. Even better than he remembered.</p><p>He considered running after her but was pretty certain she didn’t want to be followed. She knew where he worked, where he lived. If she wanted to see him again, she would.</p><p>…</p><p>Sandor didn’t open the box until he was seated at his kitchen table with a cup of coffee in front of him. He felt inexplicably nervous, but when he finally pulled the box lid off, he grinned unabashedly.</p><p>
  <em>The Hound and the Lions</em>
</p><p>
  <em>By Sansa Stark</em>
</p><p>He dug into the manuscript immediately and hardly came up for air all night. He sat at the kitchen table reading for two hours, only moving to his recliner when his lower back started to protest. He brought pages with him into the bathroom, or out to the balcony for a cigarette where he read by the light of an LED lantern.</p><p>He read in bed, planning to let the act lull him to sleep, but that didn’t happen until sometime after 2:30.</p><p>He was up again at 8:00, reading over his morning cup of joe.</p><p>Suffice to say, he couldn’t put the book down. Because Sansa had written it, because he had been the inspiration for the main character, and because it was good. <em>Really good.</em></p><p>It took place in the thirties. The backdrop was a Westeros at war with itself – the establishment against the anti-war protestors who raged in the streets… The elite versus the working class. The haves versus the have nots. After centuries of letting the government foster racism and distrust amongst the kingdoms, the people finally woke up and realized their real enemy were the men and woman at the very top – the ones who sent soldiers to wars that only they profited from. The career politicians had pressure on them in ways they’d never experienced before.</p><p>
  <em>The entire first chapter sets the stage of this social upheaval through the eyes of an unnamed, highly cynical main character.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>To start off the second chapter, the main character is standing outside a bar, scowling at people on both sides of the debate. He doesn’t care one way or the other about the war, or about who rules each kingdom, but he despises whinging. And they’re all a bunch of whingers. He ends up fighting two younger men – a fight he didn’t start but doesn’t mind finishing. When one of the men, now certain he’s on the losing side, threatens to go into the bar and call the police, the main character grumbles, “I am the police.” With one more efficient strike he shuts the man up and walks home, where he continues his drinking until he passes out. </em>
</p><p>Sandor was already invested. He knew Sansa used his own story as inspiration, but she artisinally wove it into the mood and setting of that period in Westeros history.</p><p>
  <em>The next day as the man walks into the precinct, the reader learns his name is Hank Gower. All his colleagues call him Gower, and some of the braver ones call him Growler when he’s not in earshot. But more of them call him Hound, or The Hound. It’s a moniker he’s worn since his early days as a beat cop, when he literally chased down a suspect through the dense Wolfswood, and his partner said he was handier than a bloodhound. The moniker stuck when he proved to have all the instincts needed to catch a criminal. When he became a homicide detective, he further earned his nickname: he never let a case go unsolved. He could walk into a room of suspects and almost immediately know who the guilty party was, even if he still had to go through the investigatory process to prove it. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He lives in White Harbor – a southern lad who moved to the north at his earliest chance, for many reasons. The story hints that he was running away from something, or someone. It states outright that he prefers the cold because it gives him an excuse to keep his hair and beard long, which helps hide the scars he carries on half his face and neck. Though that doesn’t stop him from grumbling about the shite weather at every opportunity.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>By the third chapter, his next case assignment comes in. He’s called to the Winterfell estate, home of the Swan family. They’re northern royalty – a family that can trace their bloodline back thousands of years. They’re revered in the north, which makes Gower instantly distrustful of them. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He's called in as a formality. One of their sons, Brian, had fallen off a balcony and is presently in a coma at Winter Town hospital. Gower’s job is to take a whiff and see if he can smell any foul play. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He starts by questioning the family. The mother and father, Catherine and Ed, are obviously distraught. Their other children – two girls and one boy – are as well. It’s plain as day to Gower none of them hurt the boy. The youngest daughter, Anna, is chomping at the bit to avenge her brother, convinced it was no accident. She’s an annoying little shit, but for some reason, Gower trusts her opinion on the matter. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The oldest son, Rodney, is clearly trying to be brave, and is preparing himself to step in and help with the family business, as his parents are emotionally devastated. He’s a good-natured but serious kid, the type who puts duty above all else. The oldest daughter, Celia, is so innocent that Gower can’t imagine she’s ever killed a fly. Probably cries when she steps on an ant. She’s a pretty girl, but afraid of her own shadow – and Gower’s. He finds her presence irksome. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The other inhabitants of the estate at the time – more like a castle, really – are servants who are just as distraught as the family. They’ve served the Swans for decades and have no motive to hurt one of the children. Gower rules them out. There’s also Brian’s half-brother, Jon – the quiet type who broods and sulks. It’s clear that Catherine doesn’t like having Ed’s bastard around, but would he be vindictive enough to take it out on young Brian? Maybe… Gower knows all too well that blood means nothing. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>But Gower is more intrigued by the Swans’ houseguests at the time of the incident. Governor Roland Baran rules both the Crownlands and Stormlands and is thus one of the richest and most powerful men in the country. Roland was there with his wife, Caren, and their three children, along with his wife’s two brothers and father. The wife is a Lorristan, another old money family.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Gower immediately suspects the Caren’s youngest brother, Tristan. He is a man of very slight stature who obviously hides his insecurities behind drinking and philandering. Her father, Thomas, is also as untrustworthy as they come – Gower knows this from past experience – but he seems authentic enough when he says he doesn’t know what happened to Brian. He also clearly doesn’t care – as if Brian’s fall is an inconvenience for him more than a tragedy for the family. Guilty people pretend to care, in Gower’s experience.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Despite some suspicions, Gower has nothing to go on. No one saw the boy fall, so they don’t even know which balcony he’d been on when it happened. The family admits he loved to climb and would scale the walls of almost every building on the massive estate. It was most likely an accident, and there is nothing to prove otherwise. Gower doesn’t give up, though. He knows his mere presence can make guilty people start to sweat, so he makes a point of stopping by Winterfell every day, asking questions, particularly of the Lorristans, to make it appear he is onto something. The patriarch is annoyed, the youngest son is amused, the daughter, Caren, acts bored, but Gower can tell she isn’t. Her twin brother James seems nervous, which is unlike the man who is essentially Westeros’ most eligible bachelor, revered for his charm and wit. It’s clear that Gower resents the man his looks and his station, and the reader is left wondering whether Gower’s suspicions are justified or merely driven out of some level of envy.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>A couple weeks later, Thomas and Tristan Lorristan return to their home in the Westerlands, with Caren, Roland, and their children returning to King’s Landing along with James who works for Roland.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Another week later, Gower’s hotel phone wakes him shortly after he’d passed out drunk at the shamefully early hour of 7 o’clock. He jolts awake upon hearing that a man snuck into the hospital and tried to kill Brian. He would have succeeded but Celia, who’d fallen asleep in a chair at the boy’s bedside, woke up and used a large yarn needle to stab the attacker in the neck. The man managed to flee, and by the amount of blood present the hospital staff believe the wound was not fatal.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>By the time Gower arrives at the hospital the Swans are already there. The poor girl who’d stabbed the would-be murderer is trembling in her mother’s arms even as her little sister – feisty thing that she is – rambles on and on about how Celia did the right thing, and that if she’d been there she’d have picked up one of the other needles to finish the bastard off, or perhaps just strangled him with her bare hands.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>When Gower questions her, all Celia can remember about the man she woke to find hovering over her brother holding a syringe, was that he smelled of tobacco and was dressed in dark, shabby clothes. He’d turned around and struck Celia in the face immediately after she stabbed him, and she only saw him long enough to know he had brown hair and stubble, his eyes were bloodshot, and he was probably middle-aged. Celia screamed and the man fled.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It doesn’t take long for Gower to see what this was, and he pulls Ed into the hallway away from prying eyes and ears. Gower tells him the attacker tonight is not the person who initially pushed Brian from the balcony, but he can lead them to that person. Brian must have seen or heard something he wasn’t meant to – why else would someone not only push a kid off a balcony, but send a hitman to kill him while he’s in a coma? Whoever pushed Brian does not want him waking up. Ed is smart enough to see the logic, even as he is in denial. He trusts his family and household staff unwaveringly, and Roland Baran was like a brother to him in their youth.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Gower hears what isn’t being said – that Ed doesn’t trust the Lorristan family, and Roland may be a friend, but Ed doesn’t know him like he used to.</em>
</p><p>Sandor flipped a fried egg in the pan; he’d blown through more than one-third of the book and didn’t intend on stopping until he found out who tried to kill Brian Swan. And, oddly enough, he wanted to know if Gower would end up with Celia somehow. She is out of his league, and too young for him (eighteen to his twenty-nine) but he is obviously infatuated with her, as evidenced by how much time he spends involuntarily thinking about her, then trying to convince himself she’s nothing but a spoiled, empty-headed rich girl.</p><p>
  <em>Gower travels to King’s Landing and begins quietly asking about the Governor and Governess. He is met by all manner of corruption and even threats to his life, but he doesn’t stop. When he’s tempted to give up, it isn’t images of little Brian in the hospital that motivate him; it’s the image of Celia being backhanded by the coward who was going to kill Brian Swan for probably a few pieces of silver. If Celia hadn’t woken, or worse, had woken but didn’t have her rudimentary weapon, would the man have killed her, too? Would he have hurt her first? Gower knew better than most what men were capable of, and that cowards like this hitman often took their impulses out on women and children.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Gower focuses his investigation on Governor Baran, sure that he would have the most to hide. Gower is right – the man has a dirty little secret – or rather many little secrets: boys and girls all over the capital that are his bastards. Some toddlers, some teenagers. Gower tracks down ten of them but knows there are more. What he is looking for he does not know, but one night he gets drunk and starts thinking of Celia – her fire-red hair that she inherited entirely from her mother. Brian has the same hair, as does Rodney. Only Anna inherited her father’s dark hair and eyes. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>His drunken musings cause him to stumble onto a realization – all ten of Roland’s bastards have black hair and blue eyes. Every single one. Yet all three of Roland’s children with Caren Lorristan have light blond hair and emerald green eyes. Is the Lorristan blood that much stronger than the Baran seed? Or…</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Gower refocuses his investigation on Caren Lorristan. She all but verifies Gower is onto something when she – after looking at him with disgust during their initial meetings at Winterfell – practically throws herself into his arms when he comes to question her in King’s Landing. She is a beautiful woman, but Gower knows beauty is skin-deep, and he can tell this woman is rotten at her core. Her sudden flirtation only cements his suspicion.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Unfortunately, investigating a Lorristan isn’t easy – or safe. People refer to them as the ‘lions’, and not just because of their golden blond manes. Thomas Lorristan is the type who can make or break a person. He is the Governor of the Westerlands, and rules with an iron fist – or, rather, razor-sharp claws. Gower tracks down people who have no reason to love the Lorristans. He has to travel far and wide, and do so with great caution, but he manages to find former employees and household servants. Unfortunately, most are smart – they know Thomas can do worse to them than some drunken, underpaid cop. For once Gower’s scars and height aren’t enough to intimidate people. Behind his scars is a decent human being; behind Thomas’ high cheekbones and twinkling eyes is a monster.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But Gower finally meets a brave woman who is willing to talk. She is in her seventies and likely figures she isn’t long for the world, anyway. She casually mentions how close Caren and James Lorristan were as children. She was their nurse and had to peel Caren out of James’ bed on a near-nightly basis. As twins it didn’t strike her as strange that they’d want to be near each other even in slumber, but when she caught them at the age of twelve exploring each other’s bodies, she brought it to Thomas’ attention. He put a stop to it, some way or another. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Everything falls into place. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Gower finds out that Roland Baran is grooming his eldest son, George, to be a Governor someday. With his Baran/Lorristan pedigree the boy will have no problem winning (buying) the election. But if it were found out that George is actually his mother’s bastard – and one born of incest at that – it would destroy not just George’s ambitions, but the reputations of his mother and uncle. It would also undoubtedly hurt his grandfather’s business and political interests. Suffice to safe, it would be a very black mark on the golden Lorristan family.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>There is only one problem for Gower: how do you accuse one of the most powerful women in Westeros without losing your head?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>By having ironclad proof of your allegation, and insurance on your life.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Gower brings his theory to Ed Swan, telling him that if something should happen to him, he should bring Gower’s theory and evidence to someone on the United Council of Kingdoms – someone who hopefully isn’t owned by Thomas Lorristan. In return, Ed gives Gower the funds he needs to buy off a servant to spy on Caren for him. After a few weeks Gower and the servant notice a pattern – Caren ventures to an abandoned keep every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon, and stays there for about an hour. Gower shows up there with several other cops, just as Caren and James are in the throes of their disgusting and illegal passion.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>When Caren is charged with two counts of attempted murder on Brian Swan, the evidence is threadbare. Gower knows it, and Caren knows it, but James Lorristan isn’t the smartest lion in the pride. He confesses to pushing Brian Swan off the balcony when the boy saw him and Caren together in one of the bedrooms of an oft-unused portion of the Winterfell keep. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>James goes to jail. Roland divorces Caren and disowns his three children. The Lorristans are not ruined – Thomas is far too wealthy and connected for that to ever happen – but they are never spoken of with the same reverence they once were. Across Westeros, when a brother and sister, or male and female cousins, seem closer than is normal, their friends joke that they’re a pair of lions. When a woman sleeps around on her husband, she’s called a lioness. (A man who sleeps around on his wife is still just a man.) </em>
</p><p>Though the case and Gower’s actions related to the investigation were captivating, Sandor found himself most invested in learning about Gower’s personal life and backstory. By the end of the book it was clear he had a shitty childhood, hated just about everyone, and was deeply insecure, though hid it behind a scowl that frightened even the most steel-spined men.</p><p>
  <em>The only softening in Gower is when he’s thinking about Celia, but even then, his admiration of her is distorted by his instinct to find fault in her... That her courtesies are placations. That her smiles are fake. The reader can’t tell whether Celia is genuine in her subtle affection toward Gower, or if she is simply treating him kindly because she’s a proper lady. It’s also unclear if she averts her eyes from him because she’s disgusted by his scars, or if it’s his harsh demeanor that intimidates her. What the reader does know – but Gower doesn’t – is that Celia’s eyes are often fixed on him when his are pointed elsewhere.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Though the young woman vexes him, he makes a point to find her alone after the investigation is wrapped up. He’s about to head home to White Harbor. Celia mentions that she’s never been, but always wanted to see it. The opportunity to invite her is there for Gower to grab, but at the end of the day he’s a lone dog. Celia seems to know this and offers a sad smile and a kiss on his scarred cheek, leaving Gower at a loss for words. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The last line of the book is: <strong>“Take care of yourself, Hank.”</strong></em>
</p><p>It was Sunday morning when Sandor read that last line. He’d have been a fool to not realize it wasn’t Celia talking to Hank. It was Sansa talking to Sandor. She parted ways with him more than a year ago because she needed to take care of herself, but he needed to take care of himself, too. He thought he’d done a pretty good job, and by the healthy glow Sansa had Friday afternoon, she’d done a good job, too.</p><p>Sandor smiled to himself as he turned the page. The next page bore only the words THE END, but after those six typed characters was a question mark, hand-written in a red pen.</p><p>With excitement he turned to the next and final page, which bore two letters and a symbol: <strong>8S?</strong></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Celia is very lucky</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sandor woke in the middle of the night. The clock told him it was 2:52 AM, Monday. He laid in bed pondering how much difference a weekend could make. Forty-eight hours ago, he was not yet the owner of Kingsguard Customs, and he had no idea whether he’d ever see Sansa again. He was resigned to living alone, never finding his other half. On the days he was feeling particularly morbid he wondered if he’d be one of those old guys that died in his recliner and wasn’t found until his decomposing body started to stink up neighboring apartments.</p><p>What a difference twelve hours made, too. Twelve hours ago he was walking to the diner, hoping he hadn’t misinterpreted Sansa’s note.</p><p>When he came around the corner and saw her red hair, he didn’t bother holding back the grin. He also didn’t bother holding back the kiss. He kissed Sansa thoroughly right outside the diner, not caring if that was what she wanted, but knowing full well that the kiss would tell them more than words could. It would tell her that he wasn’t mad that she all but disappeared from his life for fourteen months, and it would tell him whether she returned his attraction or only saw him as a friend.</p><p>When she kissed him back with equal ardor, he had only one thought: <em>Friends definitely don’t greet each other like that.</em></p><p>Sandor stared at his bedroom ceiling, remembering the look in Sansa’s eyes when they finally broke their kiss to catch their breath. She looked up at him with an impish smile, <em>“I was hungry for pancakes, but now I seem to have an appetite for only one thing.”</em></p><p>They walked to his nearby apartment, Sansa only breaking the silence one time, <em>“So did you read the whole book, or just happen to skip to the last page?”</em></p><p>Sandor had snorted, <em>“I didn’t read it – I <strong>devoured</strong> it! Couldn’t put it down. It’s amazing, Sansa. You have such a talent for writing, even if I’m biased in more than one way.”</em></p><p>She nodded and they continued their walk.</p><p>But once they were inside his apartment, everything that wasn’t raw lust fell away. Heated kisses turned into possessive caresses. Caresses turned to peeling the other’s clothing off. That led to Sandor tossing her on the bed and descending on her core immediately. He lapped and sucked hungrily and not more than two minutes had passed when she clamped down and came on his mouth, which was just fine. Someday, he would take his time with her, tease her, edge her over and over again until she begged to be let over that precipice. But in that moment, he needed to be inside her. He went down on her so she could get off, because he was fairly certain he would not last long once he sunk into her. This was long-repressed lust, and it was begging to be acted upon.</p><p>Hovering over her, he kissed her firmly on the lips, rekindling their passion, before he pushed himself past her walls. Once fully seated inside her, he suddenly didn’t want to move. He wanted to relish in the way her still quivering cunt felt around him. He wanted to memorize every inch of her, inside and out. When she gently tilted her hips back and forth against him it felt exquisite. With one hand under her neck and the other wrapped under her thigh, he began rocking gently in harmony with her movement. He’d never done this, and hadn’t even planned on doing it with Sansa, yet as soon as he was inside her it felt wrong to just pound away. He wanted to savor every bit of contact and friction. They kissed lazily, moving together seamlessly. He was so lost in the emotion of the moment that he didn’t realize Sansa was panting and whimpering until she begged him not to stop. He didn’t feel like he was doing much other than rocking and grinding himself against her, but a few moments later she cried her orgasm against his lips. He’d thought he could go all night at this pace, but the sights, sounds, and sensations of Sansa coming on his dick made his balls clench, and a few moments later he was spilling himself inside her while whispering her name like it was a prayer and a plea.</p><p>Sandor turned to the clock again; it was now 3:11 and he was hard just from recounting his afternoon with Sansa. Thought he laid there quietly, she must have sensed his wakefulness for her head shot up abruptly, searching for the clock. When her eyes found it, she visibly relaxed, “Mmm… don’t you love waking up and realizing it’s not time to get up yet?”</p><p>Sandor chuckled, “Yeah… we’ve talked about that before.”</p><p>Sansa shrugged as she snuggled against his side, inhaling deeply and sighing contentedly.</p><p>“Got a thing for armpits, little bird? I gotta say, that might be a deal breaker for me.”</p><p>He felt her smile against his chest, “I happen to know that would <em>not</em> be a deal breaker for you, and no, I don’t have a thing for armpits. I have a thing for <em>your</em> armpits. I never bought into all that pheromone nonsense, but I’m now officially a believer.”</p><p>Sandor snorted, “So should I stop wearing deodorant?”</p><p>She scrunched her face, “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves…”</p><p>“Fair enough,” Sandor smiled. He was wide awake now, and didn’t want to spend their remaining four hours together sleeping, “So, the book…”</p><p>Sansa nodded, “I’ve decided to self-publish this one under my own name. Which means it’ll probably flop since it won’t have a well-known publishing house behind it, but I don’t care. I have money to do a little bit of advertising, but honestly I had so much fun writing it, I don’t care if I don’t sell a single copy.”</p><p>“Oh you’ll sell one copy, to <em>me</em>. And you’ll autograph it with a personal note so when you’re famous I’ll be able to tell everyone I knew you first.”</p><p>Sansa laughed, “Authors rarely get famous. How many famous, contemporary actors can you name, dozens, hundreds? Now how many famous authors? Maybe five?”</p><p>Sandor chuckled, “Actually I don’t even think I can get to five. Point taken. So are you going to continue the series?”</p><p>“I already am! In between my other novel I scribble some ideas down. The next book will be called the Hound and the Viper. It’s the first book in which we’ll hear about Hank’s brother, because one of the suspects in the crime will be a guy who had a run in with Hank’s brother years ago. I’m calling him the Viper because he uses poison to kill.”</p><p>“Sounds interesting.”</p><p>“Yeah, I think so. And the third book will be called the Hound and the Mockingbird. It will reunite Hank and Celia because Celia will call in Hank personally when her father dies of a heart attack, and she suspects a family friend of somehow causing it, even though the coroner rules it to be natural causes.”</p><p>“So why the mockingbird?”</p><p>“Well this family friend is a real silver-tongued devil. Always lying so prettily, always playing a part to endear himself with different wealthy families. Celia and Anna don’t trust him to begin with, but their suspicion peaks when he begins courting their mother only a few months after their father’s death.”</p><p>“Ah, a gold digger.”</p><p>“Yep. I have a few other ideas. If the series takes off, I have thought of the Hound and the Spider, and the Hound and the Rose.”</p><p>“The Rose?”</p><p>“Yes, Remember George, from the book you read?”</p><p>“Yeah, the kid born of incest?”</p><p>“Yes. Through his grandfather’s hard work he manages to rebuild his image after the initial shock of the incest scandal dies down. He is engaged to a girl who is beautiful but fell from grace after marrying a closeted homosexual who she later divorced. Her family are nouveau riche but growing their power and influence. The girl’s grandmother is called the Queen of Thorns, because she grows acres and acres of roses, but also because she’s not one to be trifled with. George dies, and though Hank has no love for him, it’s still his job to investigate. That’s about all I have for that one.”</p><p>“And the Spider?”</p><p>“Oh that’s one of my favorites, though I’m having a hard time deciding what the crime should be. Anyway, the main suspect of said crime is an eccentric man who works for the press. But unlike some respected investigatory journalists, he’s kind of looked down on because he peddles gossip and sensationalizes stories. He’s ruined many people’s reputations by revealing the skeletons in their closets. Anyway, the man is as duplicitous as they come, which makes it difficult for Hank because for the first time he can’t tell if he’s being lied to.”</p><p>“I like that… so Hank and the reader will have no idea if he’s actually guilty, unlike in the Lions book we felt pretty sure it would be one of the Lorristans.”</p><p>“Yeah. In fact, I think I’ll make it so that the spider ends up being innocent, but whoever framed him did such a good job that Hank now has to put just as much effort into proving his innocence as he normally puts into proving someone’s guilt.”</p><p>“I think that sounds like my favorite so far…”</p><p>“Yeah? Me, too,” she looked genuinely pleased to have his approval.</p><p>“So… Hank and Celia?”</p><p>“What about them?” she teased.</p><p>“They ever going to… ya know…”</p><p>She bit her bottom lip, “I just don’t know. I think the unexplored lust between them makes for a very compelling side-story. Though I think at minimum they’ll share a few kisses.”</p><p>Sandor turned to face her, pulling her against his chest, “Well, as someone who’s lived with unexplored lust for over a year now, I can tell you that kisses are definitely not enough.”</p><p>Sansa chuckled, her breath tickling his chest hair, “I thought if anything it would be a nice way to end the series, with them getting together. Or at least, hinting that they get together. I’m thinking in the last book Sandor will come face to face with his brother. That’ll be the Hound and the Mountain. That’s the name I’ve made up for him. He’ll be even taller and bigger than Hank. His nickname will be the Mountain that Walks, or Mountain for short. He’ll be accused of a crime, and in the end he’ll refuse to come in peacefully, so Hank has to decide whether to kill him or let him walk away.”</p><p>“Please tell me he kills him!”</p><p>Sansa rolled her eyes, “Yes, but he’ll take a bullet wound in doing so, or otherwise get hurt so he ends up in the hospital. Perhaps a broken femur, something severe but not life-threatening, because while he’s in respite Celia will visit him. At first, of course, he’ll be a jerk and tell her not to fuss over him, but he'll secretly like the attention. I’m thinking that her brother Rodney, who manages the Winterfell estate and business since Ed’s passing, will offer Hank a job in security, something like that, since he’ll always have a limp and because he’s being investigated over his brother’s death, whether it was justified, ya know?”</p><p>“Damn, so Hank has a fucked-up face and a bum leg?”</p><p>“Yeah, but he’ll always be strong and… <em>capable.”</em></p><p>“Capable, huh? Well, lucky Celia.”</p><p>Sansa pulled back, her smile giving way to a solemn expression as she met his eyes, “Celia is <em>very </em>lucky.”</p><p>Sandor brushed the hair back from her forehead, “Sounds like Hank is even luckier.”</p><p>Sansa bit her lip, “Hank is also a very patient man.”</p><p>Sandor shrugged, trying not to grin like a fool, “When he has something worth waiting for.”</p><p>When Sansa’s lips pressed against his with all the tenderness and affection one could possibly give, he decided to start his first week as boss by taking the day off.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>That's all folks! Hope you enjoyed. I may come back and do an epilogue, or a couple one-shots in this universe, but this work for now is COMPLETE!</p><p>Thanks to all who read and left kudos!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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